Lord Lovidicus' Complete Guide to High Rock
by Pheonicia
Summary: In High Rock, where even maids have spies, a case of mistaken identity plunges Agronak into a tangled web of political intrigue, populated with witches, warlords, royalty, necromancers, and his unusual guide's extended family. Enjoy!
1. The Importance of Preparation

_Author's note: Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls are owned by Bethesda._

_This is the fourth story set in the Twist of Fate universe. Knowledge of the previous fics is helpful, but not required.  
_

_Dedications and thanks go out to Kytten and JawsOfOblivion, for being inspirational, motivational, and all around awesome._

_Many thank yous to Raven Studios for jumping on board as my beta! She's a very kind mistress - she's ever so gentle as she whacks my prose into shape with repeated applications of her grammar stick. _

* * *

There it was again, that loud thump from the roof. Agronak sighed heavily as he peered up from his book. The ceiling looked as it always did—small cracks in the far corner where the plaster had gotten moist, dark stain over the desk, left by the mold that had been scraped off, and the section that sagged near the doorway. He really should get it fixed.

But that was just another item on his voluminous list of repairs. There were so many things to think of nowadays; plans for the future, further improvements to the village, designs for the manor. His hours passed by in a whirl of activity.

Drawing the heavy wool blanket a little higher up his legs he settled back onto the sofa, warmed by the faint heat of the glowing coals in the fireplace. His study, library, office, and parlor were all contained in this one room. So many of the others were still bare or very sparsely furnished. He rested his head against the thickly padded arm and once more tried to focus on the volume in hand. It was hard enough keeping track of the septims that seemed to flow like water through his fingers. Even though the village was beginning to grow, prosperity pushing out the neglect and disarray, he still wasn't making a profit. Hopefully at the end of this year he'd finally see a bit of money coming in for a change, rather than always going out.

The thumps were joined by bumps, Agronak sighing again while resting the book on his chest. Staring up he wondered just what the squirrels had been feasting on, because they sounded like a herd of wild boar while they scrambled around above him.

A wry smile crept across his face as he mused on how his expectations had not quite matched his reality at first. All of those years spent trying to get his parentage officially recognized, and once he'd finally succeeded he'd been rewarded with a leaky roof, a rundown village, and obese vermin. While the roof kept out the rain now, and the village was starting to flourish, the squirrels remained the same.

The very loud thump caused him to leave the comfortable sofa behind and walk quietly towards the window, the slippers on his feet muffling his movement. As far as he knew no form of vermin, not even overweight fuzzy rats, were so fluent in Dunmeri curses.

Sliding up the window, he frowned when the cold night air hit him. It was hard enough keeping the manor warm without having to handle uninvited guests with a penchant for dramatic entrances. The noise increased, along with the curses, as a few shingles slid past the window. A mer tumbled down from the roof, plunging towards the ground head first. Agronak shot out his arm, grabbing hold of the s'wit's ankle. The Dark Elf smacked heavily into the side of the house.

"Oh, hello." One dusky hand waved up in the general direction of the window. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Tell me why I shouldn't let go," he growled, twisting the mer around so he was no longer facing the house. Too bad Mrs. Palenix had removed all of the milk thistles from the garden below. As it was, he was still rather tempted to suffer a sudden _hand cramp_.

"Ow!" Synderius protested, his head having banged against the wall with the movement. "Just haul me up, will you? And try not to be so rough."

He hesitated briefly before deciding to tug the Dunmer into the room. It was bad enough having him crawl around the roof; he couldn't imagine just what the mer would try and do next if he didn't let him into the house. Probably dig a hole into the cellar, or try and sneak in down a chimney. These stealth games of his were getting ridiculous.

"Nice outfit. Is this what all the fashionable lords are wearing these days?" Synderius asked, taking in the worn leather slippers, heavy felt pants, and thick sweater Agronak was dressed in.

"It's cold outside. What should I be wearing, silks and velvets?" He muttered back, gesturing for Synderius to grab a seat by the fire. He needn't have bothered—the mer had already wandered over towards the warmth.

"_Analysis of Wheat Production in the Nibenay Basin_?" The Dark Elf asked, horror tinging his voice as he read the cover of the heavy book on the sofa. "Tell me you were planning on burning that, not reading it."

"I'm already halfway into it. Some of us have responsibilities to consider. We can't all go wandering about the Empire on a whim," Agronak pointedly replied. "Where did you come from this time? Summerset Isles? S'tros M'kai? Akavir?"

"Nowhere near as exotic," Synderius pronounced while poking around in a nearby chest. Securing a bottle of mead for himself he wandered back to the fire before gracefully leaping over the back of the sofa to land stretched out along its length. With a contented sigh he opened the bottle while crossing one booted foot over the other. "It's a place I think even you've been to. The Imperial City. Tell me, do you remember it?"

"Get your dirty feet off the furniture," Agronak warned. The mer frowned before swiveling around. With over exaggerated movements he removed his footwear, gave Agronak a mild glare, then settled himself back into position.

"I didn't think you did. I don't know what spell you're under, but you seem to have switched personalities with that of Ysabel. Not that she's much nicer, really, but at least she knows how to lighten up every now and again," Synderius continued as Agronak sat across from him. "Lilia sends her greetings, by the way. Oh, and your Saturnalia present."

As the mer fished through his pack Agronak couldn't help feeling a bit guilty. He'd not visited his friends in the Imperial City since last year, and now it was almost the end of Sun's Dawn. Perhaps he could go next week. Oh, but there was that shipment of livestock coming in, and he'd told Durus he'd be there to inspect the sheep. Perhaps the week after that...

"Now this is much better reading material. An advance copy—they only started selling them last week. Check out the inscription," Synderius urged, a familiar look in his eyes.

_The Further Adventures of Sir Colto._ Flipping it open to a random page Agronak skimmed it briefly before remembering who Sir Colto was. Crassius Curio's character had a highly unusual taste in domestic help. Turning to the dedication he paused, wondering just how many more days the writer had left to live.

_Dedicated to the most distinguished Empress of Tamriel. May her future endeavors prove as fruitful and inspired as her past accomplishments._

"Wait, Lilia sent this to me as a gift?" Agronak asked, confused by the gesture. "She doesn't want me to go kill him for her, does she?"

"Kill him?" Synderius laughed at the question. "Now why would she have her favourite author killed for writing her a new book?"

"Her what?" Agronak questioned while setting the stately book, bound in fine leather with gilt edging, down on the floor beside him. By all appearances it was an esteemed tome of knowledge. Quite the deception.

"Favourite author. He's a nice enough fellow, if a bit...grabby," Synderius muttered the last word under his breath, but it couldn't escape notice.

"And how did you happen to meet him?" As he asked the question the answer became self-evident in the mer's smile. He knew that smile all too well. "Did _you_ do this?"

"What, write it? Of course not," the Dunmer answered. "I merely acted as the agent for an interested third party who wanted to commission it."

"But you said he wrote it for Lilia..." The connections sparked in his mind, leaping to correct, if somewhat unsavory, conclusions.

"If Boethia can have a pillow book, why can't an Empress?" Synderius pondered with a suggestive wink. "At least she's got good taste in literature. Unlike some members of the nobility..." The mer trailed off while sneering at the green book at the end of the sofa, nudging it further away from himself with his foot.

"It's important," Agronak protested half-heartedly. While the analysis of the height of tufted wheat varieties might not be fascinating, it was educational. Incredibly dull, but educational. But as his villagers grew wheat with ease, producing some of the finest flour to be found in Cyrodiil, he felt it was his duty as their lord to try and understand the wheat industry.

Though inquiries to Durus, best farmer in the village, had yielded very simple advice.

_You put it in the ground, pray for rain, and then harvest it. What else d'ya need to know?_

"Interesting," Synderius repeated back bitterly, sitting up in one fluid movement and staring hard at his friend. "Don't tell me it's come to this. We're all worried about you, Irc."

"Orcperial," Agronak protested, but Synderius didn't acknowledge it.

"You never leave town, you missed the Post Saturnalia dinner at the palace, and now I find you reading stories about grain while wearing your best beggar costume."

Glancing down, he didn't think his outfit was that bad. A bit mismatched, somewhat faded in the knees, and there was a small snag near the elbow, but it was serviceable. Sturdy. Practical.

"Even Mrs. P. is worried. _It ain't right, young Lord like that staying in all the time. Should be tearing up the town, he should_," the mer had begun imitating the elderly Imperial, even going so far as to punctuate with the small sniff she used to mark the end of her sentences. "_But then he did have that dancing chap coming round each week_..."

"Mrs. Palenix said that?" While his housekeeper (gardener, cook, and occasional nag) often complained about the deplorable condition of Agronak's kitchen pantry, she'd never once voiced an opinion on his private life.

"Right after she called me a dear and pinched my cheek. Got a good grip too," Synderius answered. But instead of rubbing his face he merely shifted his weight as if his seat wasn't quite comfortable.

"Mrs. Palenix? Short, sturdy, white hair wound up in a bun that looks like it's always about to fall out?" He was having trouble believing that she'd said (and done) that. While he'd never call her prim, she was the type who looked as though romance was of no more use to her than a spoon with no handle.

"Get enough ale into her and you'd be surprised at what comes out of her mouth. Did you know she used to work at the F'oc'sle before she met Mr. Palenix?"

"What's the F'oc'sle?"

For some reason Synderius was decidedly displeased with the question. "What is the..." he spluttered. "B'Vehk, when was the last time you left Crowhaven and met someone?" Before Agronak got a chance to answer, the mer cut him off with an angry wave. "And no, farmers, livestock, and bandits don't count."

Hmm. That made the answer a bit more difficult, and narrowed down just what the mer meant by 'met.' The count of days turned into weeks and then months before he abandoned the attempt.

"I did have a visitor," he protested. "People can come see me. And no, I'm not counting you. You turn up whether I want you here or not."

"Imsin mentioned you'd had a lady out here day after Saturnalia. Went on a bit about her too. Said she had soft, tawny brown, straight hair, beautiful chocolate eyes, and the finest, creamiest complexion she'd ever seen. Along with the worst attitude. Didn't like the cooking at Crow's Haven, didn't like the decor, didn't like the smell of the wine. She almost sounded like..."

"You met Imsin?" Agronak asked, desperate to change the topic. The Nord had only become a barmaid at the local tavern a fortnight before Saturnalia. But he was too slow, and for a brief moment he thought that Synderius' eyes actually began to glow red. Right before he started shouting.

"ILONA! You swore you'd never see her again!"

"I know you two never got along, but she's not that bad."

"Not that bad? Like withering pox isn't so bad, once you get used to your bits falling off? I can't believe you let her in here. If you were that desperate I could have introduced you to someone. But _Ilona_..." he moaned out the name.

"I still think you misjudged her. She has many fine qualities..."

"Massive cleavage isn't a quality, it's a distraction."

"...that you just don't see. She's very sweet, and kind, and gentle..."

"As a troll."

"...and I'd like you to back off. My business is none of your concern," Agronak stated firmly.

Synderius laughed loudly at the statement while shaking his head, his black hair skimming the top of his shoulders. "You'd not let me drown in a river claiming that my business was none of your concern, and I'm not about to let you waste any more time with that worthless whore."

"Whore? Just because she never slept with you..."

"Whoa. Hold on—I only flirted with her once. And that was before she opened her mouth," Synderius cut him off. "She's a gold loving, scheming, devious, back stabbing trollop with a heart of stone. I almost feel sorry for Gelthor, but at least he's pulling your sorry hide out of the fire."

"What does Gelthor have to do with anything?"

The question made the Dark Elf freeze before sighing heavily. When he began absently rubbing the side of his neck Agronak started to worry. That wasn't a sign of irritation—that was a sign of bad news. "You didn't know? Damn her, I knew you wouldn't have let her in if you'd heard. She's engaged."

"She can't be." The mer's answer hurt him more than he cared to admit. While they'd never become too serious, he and Ilona had been in a rocky relationship for years. With the acquisition of Crowhaven and being recognized as a lord he'd secretly hoped that would help woo her back. She always talked about being treated like a lady, though she was as common as an Imperial could get.

"Since Sun's Dusk. To Gelthor. Turns out he's made thousands over the years gambling on the matches. Explains why he never needed to go to work. Once she found out the poor mer didn't have a chance."

"Gelthor?" Agronak was dimly aware of the sound of the sea, though Crowhaven was too far away to hear it. As the blood rushed through his veins he sought to control the rising flood of anger inside. That irritating little Wood Elf and _Ilona_...

"Agronak, don't," Synderius urged. "She's not worth thinking about."

_Ilona_, the beautiful Ilona with the perfect skin, the cruel Ilona who'd pretended and flattered and shared his home, his food, his _bed_, all the while engaged to another...

"Did you hear me? Stop it. Just calm down," Synderius commanded, his voice soothing and soft.

Ilona, who'd accepted his locket (paid for with septims he couldn't afford to spend), who'd laughed and spoken of the future and worn her red dress, his favourite...

"Agronak, she's marrying Gelthor. Remember, Gelthor? The Bosmer with the squeaky voice who kept offering to give you back rubs? The mer who once followed you through three districts and into the sewers while exalting Azura? The mer who won't stop bothering someone until they snap? Really, if anything you could almost feel sorry for the stupid strumpet."

The anger receded as Agronak thought of Ilona, the woman with a figure who could melt steel, stuck with the little Wood Elf with remarkably thick eyebrows trailing behind her while offering to wash her hair...

A slow rumble came from his chest, building until first one laugh escaped, then another. Very soon he was laughing so hard his eyes began to water, encouraged by Synderius' humorous (yet slightly disturbing) ideas as to how the wedding night would go.

He accepted the bottle offered by the Dunmer, and didn't protest when extra coal found its way onto the fire. Squeezing septims could wait until tomorrow. "What brings you by this time? Hiding from Ysabel again?" Agronak asked while stretching his legs out towards the warmth. All things considered it wasn't a bad method of heating a room. Heating a manor was an entirely different story...

"No. She sends her love, of course," the mer answered with a chuckle. "_You tell that daft Orc he can rot in the Nine Hells, leaving me with a bunch of useless sheep to deal with. Do I look like a shepherd_?"

"And Owyn?"

Synderius' smile faded at the question. "He's...well. But he had that grin—you know, the one that makes Porkchop hide under the raiment cupboard. I think he and Ysabel are at it again."

"Say no more," Agronak commanded, trying to suppress a shudder. There was one very large drawback in living at the Arena, and the blood, rats, and smell hadn't been it.

"I'm not staying long, actually. Headed off to High Rock to do a little training and a favour for our beloved Empress. Not that she deserves it."

"Oh?"

"Pregnancy is no excuse for being rude. She wouldn't stop shocking me when I met with her in Ebonheart!"

It was a bit difficult to restrain his mirth, as he was sure the mer with the wounded posture surely deserved it. Finally arranging his expression into what he considered his calm political face Agronak inquired as to the reason behind her actions.

"I didn't teach Makela the word—I was just correcting her pronunciation. A future Empress shouldn't sound like a n'wah," Synderius protested under Agronak's bemused look. "Lilia didn't appreciate me teaching her the subtle difference between 'feh' and 'fuh' sounds."

"Can't imagine why not," Agronak replied.

"And she's so ill-humoured too. Couldn't even take a compliment in good grace."

"What compliment was this?"

"Well, we were doing a little training, and I mentioned how well she moved."

Agronak waited until he'd swallowed his mouthful of sweet mead before pressing the issue. "Moved, compared to what?"

"An ogress," Synderius answered before chuckling. "Fine, that one I might have deserved. But she's already got a belly on her. By the time the twina are ready to show up she'll look just like one."

"What's this favour she's got you doing? Something political?"

"You know she doesn't worry about that. No, she wants a staff. A plain, boring, unenchanted, sturdy yet not too heavy staff. Preferably with a good balance. Silver would be nice. Not too long either. Simple, really." The mer's voice was laced with sarcasm. "But I've already arranged our reward in advance, so I'll have to find something to fit the bill."

"_Our_ reward?" Glancing around the room, sure that there wasn't anyone else hiding under the battered wooden chair, the lopsided desk propped up with shims, the thin rug, or behind the solid bookcases, his stomach sank.

"Right. Mrs. Palenix will take care of your packing in the morning. We should leave before noon if you want a chance to grab dinner before the ship departs."

Staring at the Dunmer, checking for any new warhammer shaped dents to his skull, Agronak felt as though he'd missed a vital piece of the conversation. "I'm not going anywhere. The planting has to be done, there's a new flock of sheep coming in..."

"You're a farmer now?" The mer cut him off.

"Well, no, but..."

"A shepherd?"

"Of course not. But I can't just run off and leave the village."

"Why not?"

He couldn't believe the question. As if he spent his days idly lounging around drinking mead and watching the grass grow. "Because I don't have time for everything as it is, let alone time to go wandering about on a lark. The people need me."

Synderius merely smirked and sank back into the sofa. "For what? Agronak, they're farmers, not children. I'm sure they know their business better than you do. Do you really think the village will collapse if you leave it for a week?"

"A week?" That wasn't very long at all. Tempting as it was, Agronak couldn't help shaking his head. "It's not that I don't want to go, I can't afford it. The voyage alone..."

"It's all taken care of. Meals, lodging, everything. All you need to bring is yourself, your clothes—better ones than those, I hope—and pocket change," Synderius elaborated. Noting Agronak's continuing hesitation he pressed the attack. "It'll be an adventure."

_Adventure_. At that word visions of exotic locales, beautiful women, triumphant battles, and glory all danced across his mind. For years he'd wanted to go off and see new places, to tread in ruins that hadn't seen the light of a torch in decades, to _discover_. But that hadn't been an option, not as long as he'd been in the Arena, training and learning, fighting and winning. And since his retirement he'd been busy adjusting to the new role of lord to a village that both desperately needed one, but didn't quite seem to know what to do with one either.

The only attempt at adventuring had been last winter, a trip to the nearby caverns. Armed with his sword and a torch, Agronak had quickly learned that there was more to the job than hitting things with sharpened metal. Not that there had been anything to hit—the caves had been empty, without even so much as a rabid rat to battle. But they had been deep and winding, and he'd managed to get himself quite lost in them. Then the torch had gone out, he'd forgotten to bring another one (or a rope, or any food or water), so he'd resorted to weak fireballs to light the way. At least the scorch marks they left had prevented him from wandering in circles, and by the time he'd finally managed to stumble back out into the countryside his lust for adventure had been tempered.

But a trip to a city, ruled over by a famed Queen, in an exotic province, accompanied by a good friend...

"What time does the boat leave?"


	2. How To Get There

There were many things that he'd never done before in his life, but had sometimes imagined what they would be like. Sailing off into the sunset had been one of them—standing at the bow of a mighty ship, feeling the spray of the salt water on his face, watching the light dance off the waves...

Somehow the _lurching_ had never been a part of that vision.

"You just need to get your sea legs. It's like that for everyone," the Dark Elf beside him said, giving him a friendly nudge. The movement coincided with another lurch as the boat plowed through the water, causing Agronak to grab onto the railing to keep from falling over.

At least it didn't break off in his hand. The boat hadn't been at all as he'd expected either. The small size of it—by the Gods, he had no idea how the crew managed to fit in. While the cabin he'd be sharing with Synderius could best be described as tiny, containing only enough room for the bunk bed and a rather large bucket, the crew apparently squeezed themselves in to the level below. He strongly suspected they folded themselves up to sleep.

The slick paint under his palms, layer upon layer slapped on without concern that the previous colour underneath could be seen in spots, didn't help matters. Everything _appeared_ solid, but the fact that the Captain was missing an arm, the first mate an eye, and the cook an ear, didn't offer much reassurance.

"You're sure this is the right ship?" Agronak hissed through clenched teeth. He was certain that if Lilia had a hand in this they should be on a majestic Imperial barge, being fed sumptuous dinners and sleeping on fine linen sheets. The cursory inspection of the blankets below had revealed that at least the holes they had didn't line up, so he'd be more or less covered while sleeping. Not that he felt he'd be able to sleep at all, not with the way the Captain kept clicking a pair of calipers, of all things, at him whenever she walked past...

Synderius laughed, standing straight and comfortably, not even touching the railing. Meanwhile Agronak held on for dear life, wondering how water could manage to keep pushing the small ship _up_, and if it planned to continue to do so much longer. If so, he was growing increasingly certain that wouldn't be the only thing headed in an _up_ direction.

"Of course. Even if it wasn't, what would you suggest? Jump off and swim towards shore? We've already left that far behind." Following the mer's pointing arm Agronak realized that they'd gone far enough that the town of Anvil had receded to the point of looking like a mere village instead of a large city. He also realized he'd never been a strong swimmer, and the furthest he'd ever been from any shore had been halfway in Lake Rumare, where the other side was never more than a few minutes away.

"Are you sure this is a reward and not a punishment?" Agronak asked, his words trailing off into a small groan. Closing his eyes didn't seem to improve his situation either. Somehow the world was dancing to a different rhythm than his body, everything slightly out of sync.

"Are you joking? Do you have any idea how much it costs for a private charter on one of the fastest ships in the Abacean? If the weather holds we should hopefully get there within the week."

"Week? You said this whole trip would take a week!" Agronak protested, opening his eyes and glaring hard at the mer. Even if he turned around as soon as he reached High Rock he'd be away for a fortnight.

"No, I asked if your village could survive without you for a week. Once we get to Wayrest you can send messages to them from the Mages Guild."

"There's no Mages Guild in Crowhaven," he pointed out unhappily.

The mer briefly rubbed his neck before grinning broadly. "There's one in Anvil. I'm sure they'll courier it out to the village if necessary. Won't cost more than a few septims each time," Synderius replied while taking a step back out of reach. Noting that Agronak hadn't stopped glaring at him he laughed again. "Relax, Irc. You're on a free vacation that requires you to do nothing more strenuous than a bit of shopping in one of the biggest cities of Tamriel. Surely even you can appreciate the opportunity."

He tried to relax, but that didn't seem to happen. For some reason he was starting to get a sneaking suspicion that there was more to this trip than the purchase of a staff. Lilia could certainly just hire someone in High Rock to select one for her, or send off a courier to pick one out. But to be sent on a private charter at apparently great expense for something so trivial...

Unless she was being generous.

"What was your reward for that business in Morrowind?" Agronak asked. To his disappointment Synderius didn't seem to notice the question.

"Have you heard the new song making the rounds in the taverns? It's called _The Seventeen Sins of Darius_."

As the mer launched into the first sin, apparently involving a large quantity of whipped cream and an altar, Agronak finally lost his composure. And his lunch.

* * *

Gods, not again. The strains of the chorus floated down through the knotted wood that made up the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the foundation of the bed, and the blessed bucket. Thank the Nine it was so very large, and praise Akatosh that the cabin boy came by regularly with a clean replacement.

His sea legs refused to come in, and Agronak was starting to think he'd somehow lost his regular ones as well. Never had nausea laid him low like this before in his life, but for the past...eternity he'd been holed up in the cabin, all too aware of the damned sea tossing the boat about, and the occasional appearance of that damned Dunmer.

Not that the mer apparently slept, or at least, he certainly wasn't sleeping here. The fact that the meals kept appearing regularly indicated that days had indeed been passing. Though the fact that each meal was 'variations on the theme of saltfish' didn't help him keep track of how long things had gone on. When a biscuit had blessedly made an appearance along with a bowl of saltfish soup he'd been ecstatic.

The joy had quickly died when he discovered that the biscuit had, in fact, been a saltfish dumpling. At that point he made a mental note to forbid Mrs. Palenix from ever allowing saltfish into his home.

He'd already made the mental note to forbid the Dark Elf from ever darkening his door again. The s'wit was in big trouble, once Agronak could finally _walk_...

As the verse about the wrath of an unfortunate innkeep floated down Agronak shuddered before reaching for his trusty bucket. For some reason he couldn't help thinking he'd been present for the start of that particular sin...

* * *

"Get up, Irc. I'm not going to carry you out. And wash your face—you look terrible."

Outstretching his arm, intending to grab and throw his trusty bucket at the infernal mer, Agronak was aware that the bucket was no longer where it should be (that is, right next to him). The boat also had stopped lurching, instead sedately bobbing in place.

Risking his previous meal of roast saltfish in a saltfish sauce, topped with shredded dried saltfish, he opened his eyes. Synderius was somehow standing just out of reach in the tiny cabin, smiling happily.

"We're here. Good time too—five days from dock to dock. Though I will miss the Captain. Did you know, she's got this amazing trick she can do with those calipers..."

The Dunmer didn't get a chance to elaborate as he fled the room, just fast enough to escape Agronak's sudden lunge from his bunk.

Listening to the mer's quick footsteps as he escaped to the top deck, Agronak plunged his hands into the new bucket, filled with clean water, and quickly splashed it on his face. He felt miserable, but at least he was standing. The sooner he got off this damned boat and onto dry land the sooner he could get his normal legs back.

And the sooner that happened the sooner he could feed the mer his own tongue.

Drying off with the cleanest corner of blanket he could find, he took one last look around the cabin before mentally cursing it to the most painful of the Nine Hells. Not that he was sure what sort of dark torment would be wrought upon a _room_, but he was confident the Gods could think of something.

Holding onto the walls for support, he carefully stumbled up and into the sunlight.

At least, he felt it should have been sunlight. But as he always thought of sunlight as being golden, perhaps rosy at sunset, and occasionally even fiery, he didn't consider the copious amount of _grey_ to be sunlight. In fact, he wasn't even sure where the sun was.

Presumably somewhere behind the impenetrable layer of fog. The dark water around the ship disappeared into grey a few feet out. All he could see of the glorious city of Wayrest was a weathered pier, covered in seabird droppings, his luggage at the bottom of the gangplank, and the infuriating grinning mer who he considered far too cheerful for one about to die.

"Come on, Irc. Let's get to the inn," Synderius called out while walking backwards. "I'll buy you a drink," he paused, considering Agronak's current mood, "a lot of drinks."

Grabbing hold of his pack Agronak swore softly under his breath. Much as he wished to beat Synderius to within an inch of his long life, it wouldn't help him get settled any quicker. And he could use a stiff drink, or seven, after that experience.

Deciding to let the mer continue to enjoy the use of his arms for the moment, he walked forward to join him. To his dismay the shouts, curses, and splashes from behind indicated that the ship they'd come in on was leaving without them.

"They aren't exactly considered law-abiding citizens in the eyes of Wayrest," Synderius murmured softly. "We'll get another boat back when it's time. Now come—the jewel of the Iliac Bay awaits."

There were many different types of jewels from what Agronak knew. Some were clear and sparkled when the light hit them just right, like diamonds. Others were lustrous, glowing softly, like pearls. Still others were stones polished until smooth, prized for their vibrant colouring, like turquoise.

But of all the jewels he'd ever heard of, _slate_ was not one of them. That's all he could think of as he followed the mer. Because the only thing he could see of Wayrest was the heavy fog, so impenetrable that walls would simply loom up in front of them.

The first walls he encountered were massive stone ones that faded up into obscurity. Heavy dark rocks, no smaller than a man's head, had been mortared together into a thick ring that encompassed the entire city. Synderius mentioned that they stood several stories high, but the fog obscured the entirety of their imposing bulk from view.

Guards dressed in polished armour, bearing the coral rose of Wayrest, suspiciously eyed Agronak as he passed by. After they'd faded away, lost in the swirling grey, Synderius leaned in. "Orcs aren't exactly on the friendliest of terms with Bretons in these parts. Try to stay out of trouble, alright?"

Before he could protest that of the two of them, it was the Dunmer with the habit of getting into trouble, the mer halted below a tall weathered sign. The painting of the overflowing glass of ale suggested just what sort of establishment could be found behind the plastered walls.

"The Dead Gnome. Sounds exclusive," Agronak muttered sarcastically.

Synderius ignored the comment and pushed open the heavy door. Following behind, Agronak found himself in a cramped hallway, plaster and wood walls scuffed and marred from many years of drunken stumbling. The oppressive warmth, combined with the humidity from the weather, brought an instant sheen of sweat to his face while reminding him that he hadn't bathed properly in days.

Synderius was already in the next room chatting with the barkeep, a boulder of a Redguard, though more the round and dumpy type of boulder than the imposing and craggy kind. Slipping into the room, Agronak found a seat on a wooden bench against the wall and sat down, closing his eyes as he tried to slow the pounding in his head.

His body was out of sorts. While he could walk again without wanting to redecorate the floor, the days spent being sick had left him feeling awful. His head pounded with each heartbeat, he could smell himself, and his muscles felt restless from all that time abed. The steady diet of saltfish surely hadn't helped matters.

"Here's your key. First room at the top of the stairs on the left," Synderius tossed the key at his head, but Agronak managed to open his eyes and catch it before it bounced off his skull. The mer smirked as he walked past. "Not bad, Irc."

After convincing his body to get moving again, he trod up the creaking stairs and found his room. The door looked like all the others in the hallway—painted a dull red colour, barely illuminated by the sputtering candle set in the nearby sconce. From the motion ahead he could see that Synderius had the room at the end of the hall. After a quick fumble with the lock, and a shove to open the door, swollen with moisture so that it stuck in the frame, Agronak was rewarded with the sight of his quarters.

He'd seen better. Far better, in fact. Actually, most inns had rooms that looked better than this, including the slightly dilapidated Crow's Haven at home. The small window in the wall, white lace curtains tinged yellow from years of smoke, offered a stunning view of the city. Assuming the city lay behind the heavy fog.

Tossing his pack on the bed, he moved over towards the pitcher and basin atop the low cupboard. The pitcher held cold, stale water, with a scent that cast suspicions on its origins. It stank of fish and seaweed, as if it had been scooped directly out of the bay. Considering the close proximity of the inn to the docks, he didn't rule out the possibility.

Seeing nothing for it he bathed as well as he could, despite the circumstances. Feeling somewhat refreshed, yet conscious of the way the aroma continued to cling to him in spite of his best efforts with the threadbare towel, he pulled on some clean clothes. Intending to get thoroughly drunk on the Dunmer's dime while enjoying the best non-seafood meal that the inn had to offer, he headed downstairs to the tavern.

A roaring fireplace provided the majority of the illumination, supplemented by spluttering torches bolted to the walls. Long tables, set with benches on either side, held most of the customers—a group that seemed to be made up mainly of large, cursing sailors. Spotting the familiar dark hair of the mer, he made his way over to the booth, last one in the row along the far wall.

A Breton serving wench with more cleavage than teeth took their orders and eventually brought them the finest ale the place had to offer. Considering it cost the same as the worst ale the place had to offer didn't do much to recommend it. Though it did cause a brief stab of homesickness—he hadn't tasted anything quite like it since those evenings spent drinking at the Feed Bag after his victorious matches. The stew was surprisingly good, Agronak's mood improving as he enjoyed it. Chatting with Synderius, several mugs of ale being drained in the process, he almost felt excited about the trip once more.

"The barkeep recommended we try Gondynak's Shields first. It's close to the palace, so you can take an audience with Queen Elysana on the way there. Now Lilia wanted either silver or daedric so it could be used on all manner of creatures..." Synderius trailed off, his attention focused on the new arrival in the inn. "Oh, I do love my job sometimes."

"What, fighting in the Arena?" Agronak asked while twisting around to see who'd come in. A Breton, built in a way that only Dibella herself could manage, was making her way towards the innkeeper. Watching her walk—no, she didn't walk. She glided, crowd parting for the woman with the golden curls and sparkling blue eyes.

A man approached her, causing Agronak to marvel at his boldness for daring to speak to a goddess, before he recognized the dark hair and relaxed posture. Glancing back revealed the mer's seat to be empty. Sighing heavily while cursing the Dunmer he turned again, hoping to watch his friend's humiliation.

He wasn't there anymore. Nor was the strange woman. Looking around the room he caught a glimpse of them as they turned the corner in the hallway, heading up towards the staircase. Even for the mer that had been remarkably fast. Perhaps that's why the sailors hadn't dared approach the mystery lady in the first place—she must be a local whore.

Marveling that perhaps Wayrest did indeed have some hidden gems behind it's gloomy appearance if the prostitutes that frequented the worst taverns looked that good, he drained his mug and decided to go upstairs and get some rest. If his guess was correct the mer wouldn't be returning downstairs for the rest of the night.

His good mood, and his progress towards the staircase, were halted by the very thick arm of the innkeeper. "You were planning on paying for that, weren't you?" the Redguard growled.

As he counted out his gold, Agronak also counted out the ways he would ensure that Synderius paid him back for every septim. The majority of them involved the strategic placement of fists.


	3. Wonderful Wayrest

Leaning over towards one side Agronak rolled out of bed. Literally.

To his complete chagrin he'd discovered last night that the bedposts were uneven, the top left and lower right several inches shorter than the other two, and every movement he'd made, including breathing, had resulted in a corresponding sway of the mattress. It hadn't bothered him too much at first, but his dreams had quickly turned to nightmares of being caught in a storm at sea.

It was at the moment that a large wave was about to crash into him, bringing about a sudden twist to the right of his flailing arms, that had resulted in the first thing he saw being the pitted wooden floorboards rushing up toward him. Luckily his arms broke his fall, rather than his nose, but it was the last way he'd wanted to wake up that morning. After trying out a few Dunmeri curses, he pushed himself up, glancing briefly out the window.

If anything the fog seemed even denser than the day before. Trying not to let that ruin his mood further, Agronak quickly washed and dressed before heading into the hallway, almost pulling the doorknob out as he tried to coax the warped wood into place behind him.

Knocking sharply on Synderius' door yielded nothing, not even a mumbled threat to go away. Not sure of the time he made his way down to the tavern, figuring he'd find the mer waiting for him there. But the only person waiting for him was the bald Redguard, looking just as grumpy as the night before. "Your friend went out, but he left you this. I got better things to do than play courier for the likes of him." The innkeeper continued to grumble as he wiped down the tables.

Opening the note, Agronak frowned. Synderius had left him with nothing more than friendly orders to go look for a staff on his own, without so much as an explanation. Deciding that the last thing he was going to do was let this dampen his spirits, he chose to head out in search of a decent breakfast in a section of the city that didn't stink of fish.

His quest proved more difficult than he'd first thought. Approaching the nearest guard that he could see (the only person he could see, as the fog hid everything else from view) he politely asked for a good place to dine. To his complete surprise the guard merely sneered at him while reaching towards his sword. Understanding the message Agronak quickly walked away, amazed at the attitude the man could get away with. Realizing that he certainly wasn't in Cyrodiil anymore he moved away from the docks, further into the city itself.

The architecture was very different than what he was used to. The majority of the dwellings were built of wood, some painted bright colours, some weathered dark grey from years of exposure. They varied in size from the smallest shack to multistory dwellings with balconies and gardens, at least as far as he could determine through the gloom.

Trying to follow the roads didn't do him much good. Sometimes they'd trail off to a cluster of houses, sometimes they'd connect with well paved streets, and sometimes they weren't much more than a dirt trail. Finding himself at the end of such a trail, dodging out of the way of a squealing pig, Agronak came to realize that Wayrest was nothing like he'd expected. Instead of a city laid out years ago by methodical Ayleids, he was in one that had grown organically. Once a sleepy fishing village by the coast, it had developed in size and strength until threat had demanded, or prosperity had afforded, a giant stone wall to be built around it.

"Sorry 'bout that, but Gisela's a right stubborn one," the panting barefoot lad, leading back the chastened sow, said by way of apology. Noting Agronak's clothes he blushed and bowed quickly. "M'Lord."

"No harm done." He'd forgotten that he was wearing his best outfit in preparation for his audience with Queen Elysana. It was apparently something that nobility was to do—call on other rulers when in their city. From what he'd been told the only time one didn't do that was when one was trying to go unnoticed, which generally meant that one was up to no good. Not wanting to call down the Queen's suspicions, he had every intention of paying his respects at the palace today. If he could ever find it.

In exchange for a coin the lad pointed in various directions while recommending the Queen's Hedgehog as a good place to dine, the gardens around the palace as a popular tourist destination, the direction of the armorer's shop, and how to get to all of them.

The influence of his stomach prompted the decision to try and track down the inn first. Musing on the eccentric names of Breton taverns, and the unimaginative one in his own village (Crow's Haven in Crowhaven—not exactly original), he headed off in to the fog.

After several turns, twists, and much confusion, Agronak realized he was hopelessly lost. At least it didn't smell like fish anymore, which had been one of his criteria, but he was no closer toward his goal that he could determine, and the rumbling of his stomach made him think it was about to attempt devouring itself out of desperation.

Politely inquiring of the few people he found in the streets, being rudely ignored by more than half of them, he started to question if he wasn't going mad. Carefully following a cobblestone path in the way that a young lady had directed, he wondered why it was that the man before him was urging him to turn around and head the other way. Unless the populace was just making things up for fun, Agronak was beginning to get rather sick of the city.

Heartened by an old woman's response that the Queen's Hedgehog was just around the corner, the news from the bedraggled magician that he was on the wrong side of Wayrest elicited a loud moan of frustration. Explaining to the curious Breton his predicament the man laughed. "Well, what do you expect? There's two Queen's Hedgehogs, and you never said which one you wanted. The one with the good food is in that stone building over there, and the one with the best ale is on the other side of town," the man chuckled, pointing toward what Agronak sincerely hoped was a building and not a tree. Damned fog...

The well painted words on the sign by the door, underneath a picture of a hedgehog wearing a tiara, brought a smile to his lips. Pushing his way into the tavern he was welcomed by the delicious aroma of roasting meat, baking bread, and fresh cake. The prices were high, but the food was outstanding, and after a most satisfying meal he gladly paid out his gold to the friendly barkeep. He'd have to ask Synderius why they couldn't change their inn to this one instead. Even if it cost more he'd pay the difference just to stay in such a quality establishment.

Before finding out that there was only one Gondynak's Shields in town, he earned some odd looks when he mentioned he wanted the Gondynak's by the palace and not any of the others. Despite the interference of the fog he managed to make his way to the shop. By this point his legs were starting to get tired—he wasn't sure of the time, or how long he'd been walking, but the city was either very large or he'd managed to spend hours going around in circles. Perhaps both had been the case.

The dry heat felt good after the damp chill of the fog, and the scent of hot metal and burning wood brought back very old memories. Racks of weapons sparkled brightly from the fires of the forge, and an anvil, missing a blacksmith, sat forlornly beside it.

Browsing the weapons, arranged by material rather than type, a section of rack with brilliant green caught his eye. Stepping toward it he looked closer, enchanted by the emerald metal. He picked up a longsword and admired the gold filigree on the handle, and the thin silver work that traced along the length of the blade.

"That's one of our best. Don't see many made like that anymore," a deep voice, thick with a Breton accent, said from behind him.

"What's the metal?" Agronak asked, giving it an experimental swing. The sword was heavy, but the balance perfect.

"Orcish."

"Orcish? Can't be," he protested, turning around to argue with the Breton smith.

Instead he found a young Orc grinning at him. "It's orcish. I think I would know. Durog gro-Lurok, at your service." The smith didn't bow, but instead nodded slightly at Agronak. "Don't see too many Orcs dressed like that round here. Or too many grey ones, for that matter."

It was very strange to hear the clear accent of High Rock coming out of the Orc's mouth, but Agronak reflected that one raised in the city would surely talk like everyone else. He'd just never met any Orcs before that had accents, other than Cyrodiilic.

"But judging by your voice I wouldn't say you're from around here," Durog continued. "Where do you come from that you dress like a noble but have never seen orcish weapons?"

"Cyrodiil. I've seen plenty of orcish, but it's always been dull grey. Never anything like this," he answered.

The smith chuckled at the reply. "Explains everything then. Imperials are convinced that junk is the best stuff, and won't accept anything else. Leaves the Bretons and the merfolk to pick over the real quality. You're the Grey Prince, aren't you? Heard you were a count now. What business calls you to Wayrest?" the Orc questioned while sticking a battered shortsword into the coals.

"I'm a lord, and I'm just visiting," Agronak answered. Remembering what brought him to the shop in the first place, he asked a question of his own. "Is Gondynak in?"

The smith shook his head as he pulled a glowing claymore from the heat and placed it on the anvil. Hammering at it, sparks flying off as cold and hot metal collided, he answered. "Gondynak hasn't been in since he retired eight years ago. It's my shop now. What did you want him for?"

"I'm looking for a staff." Agronak replied. Watching the Orc work he noted the way the hammer was angled, always striking out from the center. Rohssan had taught him that trick years ago.

"I've got dozens. Don't get much demand for them nowadays, unless it's wizards looking for something impressive to carry around. They don't care about the craftsmanship—it's all about sticking some sparkling jewel at the top. Anything in particular you wanted? Just to warn you, you aren't likely to find too many built to suit you. Most aren't long enough," the smith said before plunging the claymore into the nearby water, loosing clouds of steam to rise up and curl against the ceiling.

"It's not for me. Something silver or daedric, sturdy, no enchantments. Do you have anything like that?"

"Hmm," Durog pondered. "I'll see what I have in the back. Look around while you wait."

As the blacksmith rummaged around in the back room Agronak walked past the racks, noting the rare metals that didn't appear much in Cyrodiil. The adamantium was particularly striking—a dull black that seemed to drink the light from the fire in, without a glint of reflection to be found. But the orcish sword kept drawing him back. Running one finger along the blade he traced the silver work, noting that the raise of it couldn't be detected above the brilliant green metal that made up the bulk of the weapon.

"I've got a couple of plain daedric ones, but no silver. You sure you don't want any enchantments? There's a silver one with some mean magic on it—transfers the damage it inflicts back to the wielder in the form of a healing spell."

Putting the sword down reluctantly, Agronak took the offered weapons, instantly ruling out one of them. Just looking at it he could see that it was weighted wrong, one end far thicker than the other. Giving the remaining staff an experimental twirl he knew that it wouldn't be at all what Lilia was after. While the balance was good, and the construction sound, it was much heavier than the hideous staff she'd become accustomed to. He doubted she had enough strength to wield a weapon like this with any effectiveness.

"Thanks, but they're not quite what I'm after," he said while giving them back to the smith.

"So, it'll just be the sword then? Good choice, a fine weapon for a lord. I'll give you a discount, seeing as how highly Gortwog speaks of you. It's yours for only eight thousand gold."

There had been a time in his life where that sum wouldn't have surprised him, a time when he could easily earn a couple thousand gold just for battling some minotaurs, but that time had long since passed. The smith misinterpreted the mournful look Agronak gave the sword, where it twinkled brightly at him from its place on the rack.

"The silver doesn't weaken it at all. It's there so you can use it against every type of undead, including werekind. Don't let that stop you from buying it," Durog urged.

"I'll think about it," Agronak replied truthfully, knowing that he'd forever remember the beauty of it. But he couldn't afford to buy such an item, considering what that much money could do to improve life in Crowhaven. He thanked Durog for his time, then left the shop after asking for directions to the palace.

As he followed the wide flagstone lane into the veil of fog he wondered how much Synderius made fighting in exhibition matches, and if it would be possible to earn enough to afford the sword during his time in Wayrest. Those thoughts dissolved as he found himself standing in the middle of..._nothing_.

Spinning around in a circle he could see the flagstones a few feet around him, but on every side of him, and above, there was nothing but thick grey fog. He'd already been walking for several minutes, and he hadn't seen any buildings, people, or even stray dogs. Certain that he'd reach the palace soon he continued on, unnerved by the eerie calm.

After several more minutes he wondered if he hadn't managed to get himself turned around again. At least the stones were still underneath his feet, so surely he hadn't wandered off too far. Quite a while after that he was starting to question if he'd managed to somehow end up outside the city without noticing the massive walls, and if he was, in fact, already halfway to Anticlere.

Just as he seriously started contemplating turning around a few golden spots appeared in the gloom before him. Walking quickly he made his way towards the lights, until finally he caught his first glimpse of the castle.

If Synderius thought the walls were massive, he couldn't imagine what the mer would make of the palace. It didn't look so much like a royal residence as a manor built to house the entire populace. The main entrance was set a full story above ground, accessible by two curved stone staircases, the high portico roof supported by white marble pillars.

The entire building was constructed with sandstone blocks, giving it a warm and welcoming air, despite the fact that the middle section was four stories high and two massive wings sat on either side of it. Deciding not to waste time attempting to count windows under the disdainful stare of the guards, he hurried up the steps and into the entrance hall.

The magnificence of it astounded him. There was certainly nothing like it in the Imperial Palace—one merely entered into a hallway there. And Castle Bruma, with its large empty hall, had none of the opulence of this. Two sparkling fountains inside lavender coloured marble basins shot jets of water into the air, the drops of liquid catching and spinning the glow from the numerous candles set into silver sconces in the walls. Judging by the smell these tapers were made from beeswax rather than tallow.

More marble had been used for the flooring, giant squares of alternating white and green, and high up on the sandstone walls, as well as suspended from the ceilings, colourful banners depicting the coat of arms of Wayrest—three pale coral roses on a blue shield surrounded by cloth of purple—added a further touch of elegance.

The guards inside the Palace weren't the same as the ones outside—they still wore the same armour, but there was a magical aura that danced around them, marking them as battlemages. It felt as though every one of them were staring at him, and Agronak didn't dally to further admire the hall, instead moving into the audience chamber itself.

Somehow this room was even more magnificent. The floor remained the same, but the ceiling was even higher, supported by perfectly polished columns of pure white marble. Courtiers, jesters, and musicians loitered and chatted on either side of the room. A herald, dressed in fine tan robes and holding onto a golden staff, watched him approach.

Satisfied that he had the information correct, the aged Breton turned towards the tall staircase that led up to the thrones, stamped his staff twice, and announced Agronak to the Queen and her Consort in a loud, clear voice.

Very aware of the stares of the spectators as he made his way up the steps Agronak tried hard to maintain the most dignified posture that he could. There was very little that worried him anymore—years spent staring into the eyes of people who wanted nothing more than to kill him had removed most of his fear—but for some reason he felt almost nervous as he approached the seated Queen and her husband, Lord Edwyn Woodborne.

The stories of the political power of Queen Elysana were legendary, especially those of her triumph over Prince Helseth and Queen Barenziah when the succession of the throne of Wayrest had come under question after the death of her father, King Eadwyre. The fact that she'd managed to drive the scheming Dark Elves out of Wayrest and back to Morrowind made her beloved in the eyes of her citizens, and dangerous in the eyes of all other High Rock nobility.

Bowing low towards Elysana he noticed that she was still relatively young. Her blond hair, perhaps more fluffy then curly, was worn loose, capped by her crown. Round was the dominant theme in her face—large round brown eyes, slightly protruding; a round forehead that was mercifully hidden by the bejeweled circlet of gold; a round jaw, her lips closer to her thin nose than her weak chin. But the gullibility such curves could have conveyed was banished by the cunning glint of her eyes, and the thin gash of her smile, as she surveyed Agronak.

"Hail, noble Lord. Hopefully your visit from the south brings with it the promise of brighter days and early flowers," she said softly, her diction perfect.

"Lord, is it? That's quite an accomplishment for one of your kind," Lord Woodborne remarked. The man was a few years older than his wife, grey flecking through his dark brown hair, light brown eyes watching him from under heavy lids. "A gladiator, I mean."

Something about the two of them made him feel very nervous indeed. There was a sharpness behind their polite masks, suggestive of razor tipped teeth, that set him on edge. Interacting with 'true' nobility, the type who considered rank and parentage of more importance than morals and intelligence, always made him feel very awkward.

"Thank you," Agronak replied stiffly. A leaden pause fell between them, Elysana smiling expectantly, her husband watching Agronak coolly, and he fought to keep a flush from his face. What had Lilia said about nobility? Flatter, fawn, and fabricate, was it? Or was that for clergy? "Wayrest is a beautiful city," he offered weakly.

"So you've seen the gardens?" Lord Woodborne inquired. As Agronak admitted that he hadn't the Royal Consort continued to question him. "Then the labyrinth, perhaps? No? Surely you've at least visited the cemetery."

Shaking his head to indicate that he hadn't, not wanting to lie that he'd been places that the rulers of the city would surely be intimately acquainted with, Agronak wondered if it was the heat from the dozens of candles that made him feel so uncomfortably warm.

"Ah, then you've not seen the true beauty of Wayrest just yet. I urge you to explore it before you return to dine with us tomorrow. In fact, I shall not keep you from it one moment longer. Good day, Lord Lovidicus," Elysana said sweetly, still wearing that sharp smile.

Recognizing the dismissal in her words, as well as the command to return tomorrow to dine at the palace, Agronak made sure to make all the gracious noises of exit as he took his leave from them. While he received instructions from her secretary on when he would be expected for dinner, he wondered why he was feeling such immense relief.

Though when he stepped back out into the damp fog the only thing he felt was a weary exhaustion set in as he tried to figure out how he was going to find his way back to his inn.

* * *

It didn't turn out to be as difficult as he'd thought. Striking on the right combination of a gold piece, a youth with a bit of free time, and the name of the tavern, Agronak soon found himself being led to stand in front of the inn once more. The fog had turned into an oppressive dark grey with the setting of the sun and he was almost grateful to step into the steamy heat after the long day's adventures.

Before he could even wonder if the Dark Elf had returned, the answer was presented in the rousing chorus of _The Seventeen Sins of Darius_. The mer seemed to be making it his life's mission to spread the song to all corners of the Empire. If there was a way to get over its powerful associations with seasickness Agronak would probably enjoy it more, but as it was it only conjured up images of a friendly bucket.

The hearty voices joining in dwindled when Agronak entered the bar. Hopping up from his seat on the bench Synderius greeted him while guiding him back towards the hallway. "You might want to get changed, M'Lord. Dishonest folk like them get antsy around uppity nobles," the mer instructed while pressing Agronak in the direction of the staircase.

"You aren't going to try and sneak out on me again, are you?" There was no way the mer would budge him without first assuring him that they'd actually get a chance to talk for a change.

"Sneak out? What do you think I am, a spy? I told you I came here for some training, and it started early this morning. Couldn't wait all day for you to get your lazy ass out of bed. Now hurry it up," Synderius punctuated the exhortation with a friendly push before heading back towards the tavern.

As he changed in his dingy room Agronak found small practicalities niggling at him. He should send a message to Mrs. Palenix letting her know that he'd arrived safely, that she was to destroy any saltfish currently in the manor, and that he'd be returning in another week or so. The actual mission he and Synderius had been sent on, that of finding a staff, worried him a little. After his chat with Durog he wondered how long it would take—he hoped it didn't involve too many treks around the city.

That was another thing—how was he to do some sightseeing before dinner tomorrow when Wayrest was still smothered with fog? Queen Elysana had practically ordered him to, and he didn't like how Lord Woodborne had spoken to him, as if he was an ignorant, unworthy Orc. Dealing with people who didn't like him because of his race was something he'd gotten somewhat used to, but they had never been as obvious and yet subtle as the Bretons he'd encountered in Wayrest.

In the Imperial City it was overt, a rude comment here or a drunken fool looking for a fight there. But wandering through the town he'd encountered sullen stares, slight sneers, scathing sarcasm, and suspicion. It was harder to deal with, because half the time it was so subtle that it almost seemed as if the person he spoke to was being perfectly polite. Almost.

Deciding not to worry about it for now he rejoined Synderius, who had chosen to occupy himself by trying to get the barmaid to giggle. By the sounds of it the mer was more than successful at the task.

"Much better," Synderius praised the new outfit while dancing out of the reach of the barmaid, who giggled again while giving him a saucy wink as her pinch missed its intended target. Handing Agronak one of the tankards of ale he led the way to the booth in the back corner.

"Did you pay for this already?" Agronak asked. He still intended to get every one of the gold pieces he was owed out of the mer.

Synderius smirked. "It's going on my tab, as last night's bill should have, if someone hadn't decided to pay for it on his own."

"Well if someone hadn't run off without a word that wouldn't have happened," Agronak replied dryly. "Who was she, anyway?"

"Just someone I needed to meet," the mer replied airily.

"How was she?"

The mer chuckled at the question before giving Agronak a conspiratorial wink. "Not at all what you'd expect, I'm sure. Now tell me what you've been doing all day."

Much good food and bad ale was consumed during the recounting of the day's adventures. Every now and again Agronak noticed that Synderius would glance at the doorway of the tavern, as if expecting someone, but his attentions never fully wavered. If anything he became intensely interested in Agronak's experience at the palace.

"Dinner? And she didn't ask?" The mer's question coincided with a rub of the neck.

"No, it was a royal command. It might be dull, but I'm sure the food will be good," Agronak joked, feeling very relaxed after a busy day and a hearty meal.

"What did you say to her?" Synderius asked while apparently working out a kink.

"Nothing. Almost nothing. I did say that Wayrest was a beautiful city." The lackluster comment had been a little embarrassing at the time, but Agronak didn't find himself caring much about it anymore.

"That's it? You didn't say anything about the Emperor, or Orcs, or anything like that?"

If he'd been paying more attention he would have noticed that Synderius was studying him, but Agronak was beyond the point of nuance and headed towards oblivious. "No. Lord Woodborne tried to insult me, I think, but other than that nothing interesting was said. Why do you ask? It's just dinner."

Synderius didn't answer at first, staring down into his ale while stretching his neck from side to side. Distracted by the bard in the far corner Agronak didn't recognize the signs that the Dark Elf was lost in thought. And not happy thoughts, either.

"Irc," the mer suddenly said, trying to get Agronak's attention.

"Orcperial," he corrected while rolling his head over to look at the Dunmer. He was the one who was the half Orc; as far as he was concerned he should choose the term. And he liked Orcperial.

"It's not just dinner. The Queen of Wayrest doesn't suddenly invite a low level lord to dine at the palace, especially not one who looks like you. Something isn't right, and you must be careful."

"I'm not a low level lord," Agronak protested, sloshing a bit of ale onto the table as he gestured with his mug. That wasn't a bad thing, as the liquid seemed to be an improvement in the overall surface cleanliness.

"When your sheep outnumber your villagers you're a low level lord. Nobility here isn't like what you're used to in Cyrodiil. They're different, and dangerous."

"You've never met Count Terentius, have you?" Agronak asked, tongue struggling a little with the last name. It had gone a bit numb, which made drinking the awful ale a far simpler task.

"Think of it like the Arena. Most of the nobles in Cyrodiil are on the pit dog level, but that's because they don't need to be much better than that. Bruma doesn't often declare war on Cheydinhal," Synderius elaborated. "But here in High Rock, they're all grand champions. Not only that but they've killed off the Blademaster and sold the Battle Matron to a house of ill repute. There are no rules other than the ones they declare themselves."

"They can't be all that bad," Agronak scoffed. The mental image of Ysabel in a low cut dress refused to exist, being beaten out by the mental image of what Ysabel would do to someone who tried to get her to wear one in the first place.

"They can and they are. There is no concept of right or wrong in High Rock, it's only about what they can get away with."

"But I talked to the Wayrest ambassador a few months ago at the Warrior festival. He was very friendly." Almost everyone who attended functions at White Gold Tower were invariably charming, polite, and welcoming. Agronak enjoyed himself when he was able to go, especially when they asked to hear stories of his matches.

"Of course, that's the point. He's supposed to be friendly—that's so he can learn as much as possible and report back. I'm sure he asked you all about the Arena, your career, and eventually that of your successor..."

Agronak's mind tried to sober itself up a little, because underneath the relaxing alcoholic fog that swathed it there was the memory of the charming Breton's interest in when and how he'd met Lilia. It had seemed a harmless question at the time, but now Synderius had cast it in a far more sinister light.

"Which is the first reason that I can think of for your invitation—to loosen your tongue and get information. So be very careful with what you say tomorrow, and try not to discuss much of anything. You might be safe with agriculture, but that's about it," the mer cautioned.

"What's the second reason?" he asked with trepidation.

"Well, let's just say that if they don't want to chat with you, I'd be very cautious about what I ate," Synderius answered solemnly.

Agronak laughed heartily while placing his empty mug down with a large thud. The mer was such a joker—for a moment he'd almost thought the Dark Elf was serious. Why, the mer had even frowned while he'd spoken. "How did you become an expert on the High Rock aristocracy? You're a gladiator," Agronak finally managed to ask.

"I travel. It's always a good idea to find out about the places you plan on visiting before you go," the mer replied flatly.

"Besides me and Lilia, do you even know any other nobles?" Agronak couldn't help chuckling—the Dunmer had almost convinced him that he was being drawn into some dangerous plot. Glancing around for the barmaid he failed to notice the Dark Elf's dour expression.

"Several. At the Post Saturnalia dinner you failed to attend Count Hassildor was there, as was the former Countess of Anvil..."

"Countess Umbranox? What was she doing there?" Agronak hadn't heard anything about her since she'd left Anvil in her ex-husband's tender care. Not much court gossip managed to make its way to Crowhaven.

"She's the High Chancellor's _wife_. Don't ask me how a stiff High Elf like that could end up with such a woman."

The way the mer's eyes glazed just a little caused Agronak to laugh once more before leaning in. "You didn't flirt with her, did you?"

"Of course not. You know I don't go after married ladies. I just complimented her, that's all. A woman like that was built for compliments, and plenty of them. Besides, if she ever decides to leave that humourless Altmer I want her to remember to look me up," Synderius replied with a wink, the serious discussion abandoned for the moment.

More ale and amusing conversation flowed between them until the innkeeper began giving them both murderous looks. Agronak missed them, but Synderius managed to get the hint once the man started polishing the mace he kept under the counter. Surprised to find the tavern empty, Agronak used the mer for support as he was led up to his room.

Alone with his drunken thoughts he came up with a brilliant plan. If the bedposts were the problem, then he'd simply take the mattress off the bed and put it on the floor. That way he'd sleep well, and even if he did roll out of bed he wouldn't have anywhere to fall.

The only barrier to the plan that didn't make it one of pure genius, but rather one of utter lunacy, was the fact that in his intoxicated state Agronak failed to take a few small facts into consideration.

Like the reason that the bed was pulled slightly away from the wall, why the bedposts were set in deep, wide containers of oil, and just what the thick layer of brown sediment at the bottom of each one was composed of.


	4. Where to Stay

There were those who disliked this time of year, calling it dull, gloomy, _oppressive_. As far as she was concerned those people were obviously lacking in intelligence and limited in imagination.

The fog wasn't to be dreaded—it was to be utilized. Only once a year did the thick blanket of secrecy descend upon the city, and there were so many little plots to enact in that short window of time.

And so the day found Queen Elysana's hair under her lady-in-waiting's careful ministrations, her patience being tested by her secretary, her hand making circles in her tea with a thin silver spoon, and her attentions wandering.

At the moment she was deciding whether or not she should be offended.

Normally it wasn't a difficult decision to make. It was simple enough to know if a joke amused, a compliment flattered, or a speech impressed. But then the circumstances were not normal, and there were _layers_ of meaning to be considered.

Though it really all boiled down to one question: _Why?_

Why had the Emperor sent an agent like that to her? Of all the races of Tamriel, why him?

Why a _Dark Elf_?

Was it an insult? Surely he was bright enough to realize that she'd have an intense dislike of all Dunmer, especially since that unfortunate situation she'd found herself in after her father's death. Fending off Barenziah and Helseth's designs on Wayrest—_her_ city—had been very difficult and rather complicated.

Or was he being clever? Perhaps he'd sent the mer with the oddly flat nose to sit in the labyrinth while holding a condensed copy of _The Real Barenziah_ (her favourite of all books—the memories of her step mother's indignant cries when it was first published were among her most cherished) because nobody would ever suspect her of having dealings with a Dark Elf. Not that they'd needed to speak, or even come within shouting distance of each other. His presence in the right spot at the right time had indicated that everything was going according to plan.

The treaty had been tucked under the left sandal of the statue of King Eadwyre, and it had been easy enough to read it under the pretense of paying her respects before signing it and tucking it behind the right heel. She'd been sure to ignore the mer and had blessed the heavy fog that had hidden her, and him, as well as most of the shrubbery, from anyone's view.

Unless the Emperor hadn't chosen the agent at all, in which case she couldn't take offense at his race, but would certainly take offense over the lack of personal attention. Boundaries were not normally fixed and kingdoms recognized with such relative ease. If he'd been properly educated in the history of the Empire he'd be aware of that fact.

But then he hadn't been, apparently raised as a peasant and educated as a priest. So then maybe he hadn't meant any offense at all, and was merely...simple.

Except he certainly hadn't appeared that way when he'd visited Wayrest. He'd arrived with an entourage that included a pet Telvanni (she didn't even know they could be domesticated), a handful of Battlemages in training (under the tutelage of the Telvanni, no less), a few nondescript bodyguards (who by dint of their colourless personalities could surely have been none other than elite Blades), and his pregnant wife.

The Emperor had possessed a certain charisma, and despite the fact that he'd not agreed to much of anything in their negotiations she couldn't help...well, liking would be too strong a term, but not hating the man. Whereas his wife—she couldn't bring herself to use the term Empress—had been a different matter.

She'd been utterly infuriating as she'd conducted herself with the utmost grace and elegance. The way she'd deflected questions and bantered with the courtiers, as if she was some sort of noble, had been too much. And those eyes...always calm and yet _watching_. It was even rumoured she could see with her eyes closed—surely only one more preposterous story to add to the list.

"...and if your Majesty would be so gracious, the seating arrangements need to be finalized," Vyctara said in a timid voice, offering a quill and parchment.

Grabbing them with a turn of the head—her lady-in-waiting quickly adjusting her grip on the heated curling rod so no flesh was singed—Elysana sighed in frustration. Completely forgetting the fact that she'd berated her secretary last week for failing to get her approval on a seating chart, she wondered why it was she apparently had to think for everyone else.

"Why is it you've seated Lady Hearthwick beside Lord Buckwing? Their affair ended weeks ago! Put Lady Hearthwick into Lady Buckwing's seat and move her into...who's this? Which Lady Hawkton is at court right now?"

"The second youngest daughter. Cerisse Hawkton."

"Ah, yes, the dull one." Of all the crimes a courtier could commit, being considered dull was the worst of all. Having to sit on a throne all day, with no one other than her husband to talk to (for she couldn't possibly speak with the servants), it was of vital importance that those who came to pay their respects to her at least be entertaining.

That half Orc certainly had failed in the job. From what her agents reported King Gortwog had sung Lord Lovidicus' praises, but then Gortwog sang any Orc's praises if they did anything remotely interesting. But from what she could remember this lord was friends with the Emperor's wife, and as such might be able to unwittingly provide some interesting, and possibly useful, information.

At least, that had been her initial reason for commanding him to dine at the palace. It certainly hadn't been for his scintillating conversation. But now when she thought about it, he could be used for a far more important purpose than some idle gossip.

As the quill scratched over the parchment, names being switched around, she could feel the beginnings of a smile creep across her face. Lord Wickton was being far too inquisitive recently, and she strongly suspected her husband had shared what little of her plans she'd bothered to tell him with the man.

Edwyn had been utterly infuriated when he'd found out after the fact that she'd ceded part of the province of Menevia to Gortwog, and had sulked for almost three entire months. When the only person she had to talk to all day wasn't speaking to her things got incredibly boring remarkably quickly. Trying to head a repeat of that situation off she'd mentioned there was the small matter of certain territorial disputes being resolved, hoping he wouldn't take it so hard when he found out what she was really planning.

But he'd been taking it too easy, and so had aroused her suspicions. Certain there were counter plots moving against her wishes, she seized on an opportunity, and with one small command sealed the fate of an unsuspecting lord from Cyrodiil.

"Vyctara, be sure nobody sees a copy of the seating plan in advance. It _must_ be kept secret."

* * *

Everything was very..._solid_ at the moment. For the first time in days he'd finally gotten a solid night's sleep, complimented with pleasant dreams of gentle massages.

The mattress was on solid ground, not a sway, waver, or tilt to be found. The compression of the straw as he sat up was accompanied by a crunching noise with every movement. And his head felt remarkably solid, as did his tongue. It had been a long time since he'd had so much to drink, and right now the only thought that could get through the thickness in his head was the need for water.

Managing to stand, pleased to find the world still very solid without any hint of spinning, his eyes reflexively squinted as they looked towards the window, protecting themselves against the anticipated glaring sunshine. But there was no sunshine to be found, only the omnipresent gray fog, and for once he almost welcomed it.

Dressing carefully, cursing the lack of a pitcher of allegedly warm water, Agronak found his spirits lifting, though the mental fog remained. It was remarkable what a good night's rest could do. Unceremoniously dragging the mattress onto the bed before leaving the room, he decided to go in search of fresh water and Synderius, in whichever order they could be found.

Wandering downstairs, guessing by the brightness of the gloom through the windows the morning was already well advanced, he wasn't surprised to find only the innkeeper present. The Redguard glared at him when he asked for water, before grabbing a mug, filling it up, and unceremoniously placing it with a thump on the counter. Sipping the liquid, feeling his parched tongue soothed, Agronak asked if he had any letters.

"Do I look like a damn courier? I've got better things to do then play secretary for the likes of you," the man grumbled as he carried on his cleaning duties, which seemed to consist mainly of using the same rag to wipe down everything—counter, utensils, plates, and mugs. "Doesn't help T'os-i's taking her time with the rooms today. Can't have a helpful daughter, no, I've got to have a daydreamer. Got no respect for her father. Back when I was her age..."

Not wanting to hear any more of the Redguard's mutterings, which seemed to be aimed at the rag rather than him, Agronak slipped upstairs in search of Synderius. The lack of note indicated the mer was still around. According to the plan they were going to browse through a few stores, take a brief tour of the city, then get him deposited at the palace in time for dinner. The first stop, however, would be the Queen's Hedgehog with the good food. Perhaps he could convince the mer to switch inns. The reasons he'd been given against doing so last night were very hazy.

Knocking on the painted door at the end of the hall, Agronak became acutely aware of an itch on his back. Reaching behind and scratching through his clothes relieved it a bit, but a few more itchy spots had cropped up elsewhere. By the time the door finally opened he'd put down his empty mug and was using both hands, as well as a nearby door jamb, to try and handle it all. Damn inn—he'd not been able to wash without his pitcher this morning, and somehow he suspected that to be the cause of his current misery.

A pretty Redguard with flushed cheeks and a pleased expression stepped out into the hall. Spotting Agronak's contorted position she giggled as she passed by. She paused briefly at the top of the stairs to glance back, and he couldn't help following her gaze.

Synderius was leaning against his door frame, bereft of shirt but thankfully clad in breeches, happy smirk on his face. He gave her an exaggerated wink, which earned a meaningful giggle in response as she scampered off, before finally acknowledging Agronak's presence. "I still can't imagine why you'd want to leave here. The service is outstanding," the mer said with a much smaller wink as he headed back into the room.

It was much the same as his own, though Agronak noted the bed didn't seem to wobble, and there were three pitchers of water on the Dunmer's dresser. Heading over to inspect them, scratching all the while, he found a noticeable lack of scent as well as a gentle warmth to the liquid.

"What are you doing?" Synderius asked, breaking out of his humming of a now incredibly familiar tavern song.

"For _some_ reason there wasn't any water delivered to my room and I didn't get a chance to wash up. My back's itching like crazy because of it," Agronak answered, trying not to be irritated. Little oversights happened frequently around the Dunmer, often caused by distractions of the help.

"Be my guest," he offered with a wave. "I've already had a thorough clean."

"How do you do it?" Agronak asked while shaking his head. He had no doubt what the mer's raised eyebrows and emphasis of the word _thorough_ meant.

"Hmm," the mer pondered, absently tracing the scars on his torso. Agronak had to admit, they had healed into a rather impressive pattern—daedroth had a very large, and very tooth filled, jaw. "Maybe it is time for another lesson. It's not like I need to worry about you using my wisdom on a waste of skin like Ilona."

"Certainly not," Agronak stated. The mere mention of her name made him cringe inside. Enough time had been wasted on her—it was time for someone different. Someone available. Hopefully someone soon.

"Good. Have a seat," he motioned towards the bed. Agronak took his position, chuckling as Synderius assumed his 'Owyn' pose—the Blademaster had a bad habit of giving lectures with his hands clasped behind him while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. The Dunmer could never resist imitating it.

"Today I'll teach you something you can't learn in the Legion. Something they don't know in the Fighter's Guild," the mer began, doing a passable job of imitating the grumpy Redguard's low voice. "Pay attention and it'll save your life. Don't pay attention and I'll lop your arms off. Then you'll die anyway, because you didn't listen to what I'm about to say."

"Gods, I do not miss his lessons," Agronak chuckled.

"Don't interrupt, or I'll lop your legs off!" Synderius protested before trailing off into a laugh. He continued in his normal voice. "You know, I never did see him lop anyone's anything off."

"Never got a chance. That's why he was always so cranky," Agronak explained helpfully.

"You're probably right." The mer nodded in agreement. "Tell me, Irc, what do you know about complimenting women?"

"Well, they like compliments."

"Of course they like compliments," Synderius scoffed. "But what type of compliments?"

Agronak thought about it a bit before answering. "They like being told they have pretty eyes. That's a safe one. And pretty hair's generally a good one to use."

The mer snorted while shaking his head, loose hair falling into his face. "Pretty eyes. No wonder you couldn't do better than Ilona." Brushing his hair back with a hand he elaborated. "You've got to use your brain if you want to really compliment a woman. But the trick is to know what to compliment. Let's imagine you're a girl. No, wait, don't imagine that—that's a horrible thought. Let's _pretend_ you're a girl. That's a better idea."

Agronak tried to toss his hair in a flirtatious manner, unable to do a proper preen as both hands were occupied with scratching.

"Don't," Synderius ordered. "I don't need any audience participation with this lesson. Now if you want to pay a woman a proper compliment this is how to figure it out. First, take a discreet look at her, and notice as much as you can. Are her clothes expensive, or cheap? Well maintained, or wrinkled? New, or out of style?"

"Is this a fashion lesson now?" As far as Agronak was concerned clothes had no more value than as an attractive wrapping.

"Irc, can you try thinking for a change? You can't just hit women with a stick and get them to fall for you. And will you wash up already? That damn scratching is distracting me!" Synderius waited until Agronak had moved over towards the dresser before stealing the comfortable spot on the bed for himself and continuing his explanation.

"What a woman wears speaks volumes, assuming she dresses herself. If her clothes are well maintained but out of date, and her posture and words elegant, you'd probably be safe to assume she's from an good family that's fallen on hard times. A woman like that wouldn't want compliments about pretty eyes. She'd probably prefer talk of her noble bearing or her regal stature."

"What if she talks and acts the same, but with poor clothes?" Agronak asked as he carefully draped his coat over the nearby chair. This outfit was the only one he had that was court acceptable.

"Elegant, with well cared for cheap clothes? That's a woman with no small amount of pride. The last thing you'd want to do is come in and throw gold around in front of her. She's the type that works hard and wastes not, so extravagance would not impress her. In terms of compliments, she'd be very flattered if you mistook her for a social level or two above her current station. Nothing too high, but calling her milady would work wonders."

"And what about the ones with poor clothes and bad manners?" Agronak asked while undoing the buttons of his shirt, stopping every now and again to tend to an itch. Much to his consternation there were now itchy spots on the back of his legs, his arms, and...elsewhere.

"Bad manners, cheap clothes, and general untidiness? Those ones you could get away with the pretty eyes comments, so long as you're buying the mead," the mer joked.

"So then what kind of compliment would you give me?" Unable to resist he turned and gave the mer a quick fluttering of the eyelids as he removed his shirt. The sour expression on Synderius' face was worth it.

"Pretty eyes, and you can buy your own damned mead," the mer growled. "Mine as well. Better yet, make it something stronger. I'd need it."

"Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes!" Agronak teased as he turned back to the pitchers. The mer behind him broke out into a peal of laughter. Glancing over his shoulder, he wasn't sure what was so amusing. The joke wasn't that funny.

"B'Vehk, Irc, what did you do last night?" Synderius managed to ask. "I've never seen anything like it before. Just don't let them scar, unless you're aiming to become the first speckled Irc in existence."

"What are you talking about, you daft s'wit? I didn't do anything other than drink with you," Agronak answered, bewildered by the mer's amusement. "Let what scar? And for the last time, it's _Orcperial_."

"You must have done something. There's little welts all over your back," the mer answered while standing. He walked over to better examine them. "Arms too."

Raising an arm Agronak saw what the Dark Elf was talking about. Small angry bumps, irregularly spaced, dotted his skin. To his concern there appeared to be a tiny divot in the center of them, almost as if a bit of flesh had gone missing. "I didn't do anything. I couldn't have—I passed out and slept straight through to this morning," he protested to the bumps.

"I thought you couldn't sleep well on your bed. Something about it being wet," Synderius murmured, looking but not daring to touch the mystery marks.

"Not wet. Like trying to sleep out to sea. The frame rocks, so last night I put the mattress on the floor...what?" The mer had again broken into a fit of laughter, and Agronak felt his temper starting to rise. There wasn't anything funny about the situation.

"You slept face down, didn't you?" Synderius asked, having stepped back out of reach. At least he wasn't laughing as hard now.

"How did you know?"

"Because there aren't any bites on your front."

"Bites? What bites? Who's bites?" The idea was horrifying—surely they weren't bites. Maybe it was just a rash.

"Irc, I know you don't get out much, but it's obvious you've never stayed in a quality establishment like this before. Our host goes the extra step to ensure our comfort. Note the bowls of oil at the bottom of each bedpost," the mer pointed them out, and Agronak vaguely remembered seeing something similar in his room. "Now note the thick layer of bugs at the bottom of each bowl. They climb up from the floor, fall in the oil, and can't crawl out because it's too slippery."

"Bugs? What type of bugs?" Agronak couldn't help eye the walls and floor suspiciously as he asked, sure he'd see something scuttling away.

"Judging from those marks, hungry ones. Well, they're probably not so hungry now."

Agronak lunged towards the Dark Elf, filled with a very strong desire to extract some form of revenge for being dragged into a carnivorous bug infested hole. The way the mer leaped onto the bed and rolled out of reach might have impressed him a little, if he hadn't been paying attention to the welcome words coming out of his quarry's mouth.

"Stop! I've got something that will fix you right up. Brought it back from Morrowind—secret Telvanni recipe," he offered. Seeing Agronak's nod he headed towards his pack, muttering all the while. "Course, every Telvanni recipe is a secret one. Craziest House in the province. They say all the magicka warps their minds, but they've never met a young Telvanni. They're born insane."

Synderius offered a tin, which Agronak took and opened, examining the contents suspiciously. It looked like any other salve, fortunately. He'd almost expected it to glow, or smell awful, but if anything it had a warm, inviting scent to it.

"Put a little on once a day, and you'll be fixed up in no time," Synderius instructed. "All you need is a small amount. And before you even think of asking, no, I will _not_ put it on for you."

* * *

"You'd better have a damn good reason for summoning me at this ungodly hour," Edwistyr grumbled from his prone spot on the sofa. One forearm was pressed over his eyes, the other dangling casually off the edge of the cushion.

"It's half past twelve in the afternoon. I hardly consider it early, especially when there is so much work to be done," Theodyrick replied, shutting the thick door behind him. He took his seat on the brocade covered armchair, an unfortunately feminine print chosen by his lovely Ysausa. The woman had so many attractive qualities—vast estates, well endowed savings accounts, and a desire to impress. But her insistence on keeping up their city townhouse with the latest fashions only reinforced his suspicions she was colourblind. Surely nobody could think such garish colours belonged together in one room, let alone one piece of fabric.

"Work? What work?" his cousin asked, moving his arm to expose a puffy brown eye. Despite his exhausted appearance he knew the man's mind was as sharp as always.

"Take a look at this." Theodyrick offered the folded piece of parchment. Edwistyr snatched it, sat up with a small groan, and began reading. One elbow rested on his knee, his hand supporting his nest of tousled hair.

"A seating chart. You got me out of bed for a seating chart," he said flatly. His questioning glance, answered by Theodyrick's glare, elicited a heavy sigh and a renewed examination of the parchment.

Waiting for his cousin to figure out the importance of what he was holding in his hands, Theodyrick let his gaze wander to the large windows. The heavy fog shrouded the city from view, and he watched the drifts of grey float by while trying to force the pieces of the puzzle together.

Edwyn was unhappy, annoyed by Elysana's secret plots. The woman was always plotting, this was nothing new, but her current project eluded his spies' best efforts to decipher. Which meant it was something she'd been taking great pains to hide. That, and her small remark about territorial issues being resolved, meant she was up to something big.

Lord Woodborne had summoned him, under pretenses of family business, and essentially ordered Theodyrick to try and find out what was going on. At first he'd been hesitant to get involved—crossing Elysana often led to a drastically shortened lifespan. But when Edwyn had reasoned that because she wasn't including him in the plans it surely had nothing to do with Wayrest's shared boundaries with Sentinel or Daggerfall, it led to only one conclusion.

Gortwog, the cursed thief, was involved. Enough of Wayrest's land—his family's land—had been lost to that crafty devil. And he was damned if he'd sit by and let it happen again.

"Who's this?" Edwistyr asked, pointing out the only name on the chart he wasn't familiar with.

"That's a minor noble from Cyrodiil," he replied, looking away from the lurid pink of the window frame and back over to his cousin. The young man sat up as if he'd been stung, eyes widening as he stared at the parchment.

"He's here? How did we miss his arrival?" Edwistyr asked quickly. "The lists of the passenger manifests have been checked daily, as have the guards' logs. How did a lord sneak into the city?"

"One of the many questions needing to be answered before tonight. Does the name mean anything to you?" Theodyrick asked, pleased his cousin shared his concerns and hadn't been slacking in his duties. There had been a worry Edwistyr's informants had been failing to report in to him, or that his cousin had been too distracted by his late night hobbies to pay attention to the important matter, but his reaction put all such suspicions to rest.

"It's familiar. Very familiar. Has he been here before?"

"No, but he's been discussed at length in certain circles," he replied while walking over to the sideboard. Pouring out a small measure of brandy for each of them into the crystal tumblers, he frowned down at the newest piece of furniture, with its inlay work featuring almost every exotic wood he'd ever heard of, as well as a few he was sure the carpenter had made up. How something so expensive could be both so ugly and girlish at the same time he didn't understand. Replacing the decanter of brandy on top of the bumblebee motif he grabbed the glasses and walked over to the sofa.

"This might help jog my memory, because I can't place the name," Edwistyr said while taking the offered glass. He took a quick gulp and continued frowning at the parchment.

"Perhaps that's because he has a few others besides Lord Lovidicus. Perhaps Agronak gro-Malog, or the Grey Prince, rings a bell?"

"No!" Edwistyr spat out, shocked by the situation. "An Orc, of all creatures, the Emperor's agent? It can't be."

"Why not?" Theodyrick asked while seating himself on the armchair, failing once more to understand why oranges, blackberries, watermelons, and ducks made up the pattern. The fruit he could understand, but the ducks? Why ducks? Why not strawberries?

"Surely Elysana wouldn't deal with an Orc. Everyone knows she tolerates them only because she must," Edwistyr answered.

"Exactly." This was one part of the puzzle he had figured out. In fact, it was the part that made the most sense of all. "Of course it's an Orc, because everyone knows she wouldn't deal with an Orc. This way nobody would suspect him of anything. Don't forget how clever she is."

"Too clever," Edwyn murmured while nodding. "And did you notice she's seated him on the opposite end of the table from Lord Buckwing? He's a known Orcish sympathizer. Logically she should have put them together, so they could grunt at each other, but she's isolated them."

"And she ordered her secretary to keep the seating chart secret."

"Secret?" his cousin asked, large smile on his face. "By the Gods, it must be him."

"Yes. Which is why we must hurry to learn everything we can about his activities here in Wayrest. Where he's been staying, who he's been talking to, what he's been doing. Maybe we can finally figure out what his purpose is. Is that sturdy prostitute still around? Perhaps she could learn something from him. You know how Orcs are about women."

The shake of dark brown curls was a disappointment, and he couldn't figure out the reason behind Edwistyr's delighted smile as he studied the chart once more. "No, she's moved off to Anticlere. But there is someone else I can think of who could help."

"Your source?" He never asked for details about where Edwistyr got his information, nor did he offer up his own resources. Not only was it safer that way, but also the wisest course to take—there was never a guarantee a spy couldn't be convinced to report back on their employer as well as their targets. No self-respecting noble shared informants, not even with family. _Especially_ not with family.

The young man nodded, offering back the copy of the seating chart. "Now that you've woken me up, let's get to work."


	5. Visiting with Wayrest's Gracious Queen

Synderius was in trouble.

Well, more trouble than simply because he'd refused to leave the inn with Agronak. His excuses about suddenly feeling ill, coincidentally following his surprisingly detailed instructions about what Agronak was, and was not, to discuss at the palace, as well as his suggestions as to where a staff might be found, were obviously lies.

A statue loomed out of the gloom, causing Agronak's heart to sink when he recognized it as Dibella. He was now distinctly unhappy, beginning to wonder if he would ever get out of this maze alive. Struck with a sudden inspiration he put his shoe onto the base of the statue, marking it with a small clump of mud. Now at least he knew which direction he'd come from.

Taking the first right turn that he found, vaguely remembering once hearing that eventually one would find one's way out of a labyrinth by always doing that, he wondered what time it was. As well as what the Dark Elf had gotten himself in to.

It didn't have anything to do with the innkeeper's daughter, at least he was sure of that. The Redguard would not hesitate to extract revenge immediately if he knew exactly what form of room service the mer had been receiving.

Synderius' emphatic instructions that Agronak be sure not to mention him at all, not even the fact he had an acquaintance, is what had prompted the worries. Combined with the mer's sudden refusal to step outdoors, almost as if he was in hiding, he could only come to the conclusion that the s'wit had managed to get himself into trouble. Again.

Hitting another dead end, the large wall of shrubbery visible at the end of the row, Agronak turned back and walked away quickly, looking for another right turn. If only he had a decent sword—he'd hack a few Orc shaped holes into the bushes and get out of this place.

But he had nothing more than a small dagger, having been warned not to show up to a palace function armed like a mercenary. The frustrations of the day were getting to be too much, and if it wasn't for the fact that he'd ruin his good clothes, he'd be making Orc shaped holes with his body right now.

After another right turn and quick jaunt down yet another corridor he groaned when he found himself at the statue of Dibella. Circling the stone base, absently scratching his back, he suddenly realized why he'd been seeing it constantly.

There was more than one statue. This one had no marking—unless someone had come along in the past couple of minutes and cleaned it off, he'd been stumbling back and forth between at least two identical statues for what felt like ages. Orienting himself from what he thought was the way he'd entered the junction, he gave the figure a less than gentle kick, made sure the mud stuck, and headed off to the right.

Typical really. This whole day—this whole trip—he felt like he'd been walking in circles. After briefly getting lost in the fog while looking for the Queen's Hedgehog with the good food, he'd spent a gold to get an escort to the inn. Another gold had been spent being taken to the first stop on the list of blacksmiths in the city.

By the time he'd visited the last store he'd had three urchins waiting for him in the street, eager to take him anywhere he wanted—for another gold, of course. The boys had almost gotten into a fight over who would escort him, and he'd settled it with a rather clever contest. Asking them to convince him where to go—the gardens, the cemetery, or the labyrinth—they'd given him very eloquent descriptions, each lad arguing for one destination over the other.

Confident that he could fake a discussion of the gardens (nothing but mud this time of year), and the cemetery (tombstones, old crypts, and old trees), he'd chosen to go to the labyrinth. All of them had said something different about it, and it did sound like something that had to be seen first hand.

Jogging along it now, desperate to get back out of it, he regretted letting his guide leave him at the entrance to the maze. It had been an hour before his expected arrival at the palace, and he'd been sure he'd be out in plenty of time to make it to dinner. But the sky had gone dark, the temperature grown cold, and with each passing moment he was certain that he was _late_.

Which was a very bad thing, from all accounts. As a foreigner, a guest, and a different race, he did not have the luxury of being late. At the very least it would be the pinnacle of rudeness.

Stumbling out into a small clearing, a statue of a large king in front of him, Agronak couldn't help exclaiming with delight. From what he remembered this was right by the entrance. The scepter was held in an awkward pose, and at first sight he'd thought the king had been holding something else entirely. Positioning himself to approximately the correct angle, Agronak turned around and _ran_.

Worries about Synderius's troubles could wait. Hopefully the Nine would have mercy, and he wouldn't be bringing down the wrath of a Queen on his head. Surely nothing the Dark Elf was involved in could be so potentially dangerous as a royally upset Royal.

* * *

Checking his teeth in the mirror, making sure no remnants of lunch hid between them, Lord Woodborne sighed heavily. She was late, of course.

Which was to say she was on time, because Elysana firmly believed in every royal prerogative there was. She should never have to wait a moment for anyone else, but everyone should glory in the fact that they could wait for her.

Including him, apparently. Never mind that he was her _husband_, or the father of her children. He always had been, and always would be, something less than her.

This small fact had escaped his notice all those years ago, when she'd been young, innocent, and naïve. At least, in appearance. From what he now knew of her he was certain she'd been born a shrewd, heartless manipulator.

Glancing down the long corridor, ancient pictures of forgotten Kings and Queens spaced evenly between the doors, Edwyn wondered what she would be wearing today. It was the only quirk of hers that offered any insight into her shrouded labyrinth of a mind, one he never dared mention for fear that she'd change her ways.

There were always superstitions, legends, and myths surrounding royal families. Some were said to pass down through the ancestral lineage, some were alleged punishments for long past sins, and some were merely inventions of an imaginative mind. Elysana's unique habit of wearing a colour in support of whatever undertaking she was involved in was something she'd certainly come up with on her own.

The only reason he knew of it was because her old governess, invited to the wedding, had mentioned her childhood habit of sporting the colour of her favourite knight on tournament days. It was nothing more than an offhand remark, but one that had stuck, and one that had been reinforced with his years of experience. And so the colours of her dress, the jewelry she wore, were the things he always remembered from the more important moments in their relationship.

Pale coral, the colour of Wayrest, and turquoise, the pendant he'd given her. That had been the colour scheme of their complex courtship. The remembrance of his confidence, the certainty she'd yield her crown to him, was physically painful. The bitterness was something he'd never come to terms with.

Red, the colour of the dragon of Daggerfall, the colour of the diamonds that she wore, never failed to remind him of the precise moment in which he'd learnt just who he'd married.

She'd been annoyed with him, chastising him for his sullen silences, never once apologizing for turning to Gortwog in order to secure her throne. That alone had been a huge insult, but the worst had been the day she'd finally snapped and told him she never intended on naming him King, instead sticking him with the reviled mantle of Royal Consort for the rest of his days.

He'd been furious, and though he'd not uttered a word, he knew she'd seen the murderous threat in his eyes. Much to his surprise she'd merely smiled softly and walked away.

That night, waiting for him on his pillow, a single piece of parchment with a single sentence had torn his world from under him.

_I will deal with her just as I did with Lysandus. _

In that one instant he knew—she was the one who'd sent an agent to steal his diary, the only evidence that could be used to expose him as the murderer of King Lysandus of Daggerfall. Its disappearance had haunted him, but after his uneventful marriage he'd begun to believe it had been destroyed, or otherwise lost forever.

She'd walked in, bedecked in red diamonds of the Empire, clad in red cloth of Daggerfall, and smiled that same soft smile. Elysana's carefully crafted little speech, about the sincere hope that she'd spend the rest of her days in good health and safety, let him know she'd already arranged for the passing over of the incriminating document should anything unfortunate happen to her. It was a given that included accidents and natural illness as well—if she died, he'd be ruined. Even if he had nothing to do with it.

But Edwyn was a practical man, and had come to see the situation for what it was. While she hadn't given him the powers of a King, and she thought she had him safely under control, he was the husband of the ruler of Wayrest, a province vastly larger than it had been when he'd first been betrothed to her. And while he strove to ensure her continued survival, her happiness and schemes were not paid the same attentions.

Leaning against the console table, rattling the vase filled with coral roses, he pondered her current plot. It had to do with Gortwog, he was sure of it. And the Emperor as well—there had been that one private stroll through the labyrinth, Elysana leading him through her treasured maze, that no one else had been allowed to attend. Instead he'd been relegated to entertaining the Empress. It was still rather unbelievable—how could a bastard, of all people, wind up with such a perfect partner?

If only Elysana was more like her. As far as he could tell she was everything a noble could ask for—polite, demure, yielding, and completely lacking in political opinions of any kind. She'd spent the entire time listening to anything he wished to say, and when she did speak it was of mundane subjects, like children, roses, and travel.

The soft sound of rustling silk, a noise reminiscent of wind through leaves, pulled him out of his reverie. Elysana, his beautiful, contemptible, regal wife, was making her way sedately along the hallway. There was plenty of time to admire the crimson sparkle of her red diamond tiara (red diamonds of the Empire), the brilliant green of her malachite earrings (the bright colour of Orcs), and the cut of her dove grey gown (grey, just like that new visitor)...

Smiling with true delight, he offered his arm to escort her to the guests. His assumptions had been correct. And now, it was time to give Theodyrick a subtle signal, setting their plans into play.

Elysana accepted his arm with a smile, and a burst of pleasure at the thought of her face when her little scheme unraveled ran through him.

Grey, red, and green—this colour scheme was something he'd treasure forever.

* * *

Somehow he wasn't sure which was worse—the fact that he was late, or that he wasn't late enough.

Standing in the sumptuous room, aware that everyone was staring at him, and that they'd all gone silent with the announcement of his arrival, he was grateful he hadn't been late enough to arrive after Queen Elysana. So technically he wasn't late.

Except the impassive faces of the Breton aristocracy staring back at him were entirely strangers, and he'd missed all of the herald's introductions. And he was very aware of the fact that he was the only foreigner present, and that he'd have to spend the rest of the evening interacting with the least welcoming group of people he'd ever seen.

Gratefully accepting a glass of wine from a waiter, he surveyed the crowd and tried to decide what to do next. They'd gone back to chatting, all of them politely ignoring his presence as they stood under the canopy of trees placed inside the large room. It wasn't clear if this was an arboretum, a salon, a dining hall, or merely an empty space that could be transformed at the Queen's whim. What was certain was the level of wealth on display was beyond anything he'd before seen.

Small sparkles of light twinkled between the leaves of the blooming fruit trees, enchanted by means he didn't know. Fragrant flowers were everywhere—in vases on the side tables, growing around the base of the trees, and being worn in the hair of the ladies and the button holes of the men.

But the glimmer of the magical illumination didn't compare to the flashing brilliance of the jewelry on display. Every gem he'd ever heard of, and many he'd never seen before, appeared on the necks, fingers, wrists, and heads of the women present. The men as well were adorned—jewels for buttons, heavy golden chains holding their fine jackets closed, threads of gold and silver worked onto their clothes.

Without a single sparkle to his outfit, added to the fact that he wasn't a Breton, but rather a grey Orcperial, Agronak had never felt so out of place in his life. Deciding to make the best of an unusual situation, he walked towards the nearest group, intending to introduce himself.

"Greetings. I hope the evening finds you well," he offered to the two ladies, who'd been discussing a recent wedding banquet.

"Hmph." That was as much as he got in response from one, the other merely staring at him coldly for a moment, before both walked away without another word.

Maintaining a fake smile, Agronak quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the snub. A small circle of nobles looked away when he eyed them, the two nearest turning their backs and positioning themselves closer together to ensure he couldn't join the conversation.

Reconsidering his strategy, he made his way to the side of the room, catching snippets of whispered talk as he passed by.

"_Can you believe it? An Orc. She hasn't had one of those to dinner in years."_

"_Do you think he's trained to use cutlery? I hope he doesn't eat with his hands."_

Clenching his teeth, he tried to maintain his composure. The words stung though—this was beyond anything he'd been exposed to before.

"_Last to arrive. Just like an Orc to be so rude."_

"_Now dear, remember, those creatures aren't like us. It's a marvel they can tell time at all."_

"_Yes, of course, with such tiny brains I'm always amazed they can dress themselves. At least he's clothed—even if he is wearing the same outfit he did yesterday."_

Listening to the spiteful banter he was appalled at the contempt and ignorance in the room. He'd heard Orcs were not well regarded in Breton society, but to be spoken of as something less than a person...

"Is this your first time in Wayrest?"

Startled out of eavesdropping, Agronak looked over to find a most unusual woman smiling at him. The pale skin and cascading black hair suggested she was a Breton, but her eyes...

"Lady Karethys Yeoming," she said, offering her hand. Taking it Agronak felt the ticklish sensation of magicka creeping up his arm, dissipating somewhere above the elbow.

A charm spell, if he wasn't mistaken. This strange woman, with the solid red eyes some Dark Elves possessed, a matching red dress surely held up with magicka as it didn't have the amount of fabric normally required for such a garment, had tried to enchant him. All of those warnings Synderius had given him flashed through his mind, reinforced by her next question.

"What brings such a handsome Cyrodiilic lord to our small town?" Her red eyes glowed, causing Agronak to suddenly feel very uneducated about the ways and habits of Bretons. Karethys was pulsing with magicka, his skin tingling every moment he spent beside her.

It didn't help with the uncomfortable sensation he already felt, the missing pieces of flesh having been healed with a few spells, but the irritation of the bites remained. The salve he'd used had soothed the itching, though he still didn't entirely believe Synderius' reassurances that it was supposed to burn so much.

"Agriculture," he lied. "I'm looking for some more sheep for my village."

"Mmm, the onerous duties of a lord," she murmured while wrapping an arm around his. "Let me tell you about the guests, since you missed the introductions." A pause, he was certain she was expecting him to fill with an explanation of his tardiness, passed before she continued speaking. "That woman in white," she nodded discreetly towards an elderly lady, "is Lady Gaerston. Her husband owns half of Alcaire. He banished her from his sight after he caught her with his brother. She's lived in Wayrest ever since."

Agronak tried hard not to react to the sudden gossip she was telling him. As Karethys continued around the room, revealing details of illegitimate children, scandalous love affairs, and other lurid secrets, he attempted to make sense of the situation. She was still trying to charm him, little tingles of spells running up his arm where she held on, or flowing over his ear when she whispered especially dark tales. But so far he'd not had to say anything besides a few non-committal remarks—she'd done all the talking. Perhaps she wasn't trying to use him for anything after all.

"The thin man with the beard is Lord Buckwing. It's said that Lady Buckwing's five children are all miracles, due to the fact that he prefers...less lively companionship," she stated. Not quite understanding her meaning Agronak gave her a curious look.

"The undead," she whispered in his ear, pressing far more of herself than was necessary into his side to do so. "He's rumoured to have a lich locked away in his cellar, at least according to his escaped slaves."

"Slaves?" From what he knew slavery had only existed in Morrowind until several years ago—other than that, the other provinces didn't tolerate the practice.

"Orcs. It's terrible just how prejudiced some people can be," she answered, the warmth of her face very close to his. "They don't see the intelligence, the strength, the nobility..."

Between her inviting smile, her warm companionship, and the continued attempts to charm him magically, Agronak finally understood just what Lady Yeoming was after.

Damned s'wit. Synderius' paranoia had almost ruined Agronak's chance to make the acquaintance of such a bold, and beautiful, woman. Just because the daft mer had gotten himself into some kind of trouble, didn't mean danger was lurking around the corner for him as well.

The appearance of Queen Elysana, escorted by her husband, was the signal for the guests to make their way to the dining room. Karethys didn't let go of Agronak's arm, instead letting him escort her along below the apple blossoms. Grabbing two glasses from a nearby waiter, she offered one to him.

"It was a delight to make your acquaintance. I do hope I will be able to see more of you before your departure from our humble town," she murmured.

"To a promising beginning," he toasted quietly, their silver goblets briefly pressing together. She sipped hers with a pleased smile before heading off under the guidance of an impeccably dressed servant.

Another unctuous castle employee led Agronak to his seat, near the far end of the grand table. Walking behind the man, trying not to compare the fine uniform with his own clothes, Agronak quickly glanced around the hall. As with the other rooms, the walls and ceiling were of sandstone, the floors alternating squares of marble.

But here the symbols of Wayrest were used to an almost overwhelming effect. Apart from the hanging banners of the coat of arms, the purple velvet covering the carved chairs, and the thick blue carpeting, the room was filled with coral roses. Sprays of them were placed along the length of the table. Garlands of them draped across the walls. Even the candelabra were ringed with arrangements of roses, and as he sat down he noted the single rose, tied with a purple ribbon, sitting atop the blue napkin.

A name card set behind his plate, held in place with a small golden stand, let him know he was in the right spot. Glancing to his right, he noticed the name of the woman next to him.

_Lady Barbanna Buckingcroft, Wayrest._

She was facing away from him, towards the Queen, and he waited politely for her to turn her head so he could greet her. As time continued to pass, he began to reach the conclusion she didn't want to be greeted.

Taking a large drink of his wine he studied the name of the empty spot on his left, at the very end of the table.

_Lady Cerisse Hawkton, Menevia._

The name was unfamiliar, one Karethys hadn't mentioned as she'd entertained him with court scandals and gossip.

Murmurs of the obsequious aide behind him heralded the arrival of Lady Hawkton, and Agronak decided to study the large plate in front of him, trying to spare her from giving him yet another frigid rebuff. If the nobility wished to ignore him, he could at least help honour their wishes.

For some reason she wasn't sitting down. He continued to analyze the dinnerware, hoping she wouldn't say something completely rude about having to sit beside an Orc. This evening was turning out to be very uncomfortable, and to his chagrin he felt as though he was coming down with an illness. A mild headache, as well as a touch of fever, added to his unhappiness.

She still wasn't saying anything, though, and he was now aware that several of the nearby dinner guests were staring at them. For once in his life he wished he knew a good invisibility spell, hoping she would stop looming over him. Though she was actually quite short, barely a head taller than him as he sat beside her, the way she stood in such an imperious fashion made her presence well known.

It wasn't until the condemning whispers about 'uncouth Orcs who won't even give a hand' began did he suddenly realize she was waiting for him to offer her a seat. This wasn't at all how things were done in Cyrodiil, but as he was all too aware he wasn't in Cyrodiil anymore.

As soon as he moved his hand up she quickly placed her small one on it, the pressure barely more than a feather, and slid into her chair. The whispers continued, slightly lessened in vitriol, and he girded himself before looking at her, sure she'd be staring at something on the far wall, presenting him with yet another carefully arranged hairstyle.

Surprisingly she was looking demurely at him, an expectant air about her as if waiting for something.

"Good evening, Lady Hawkton," he stated quickly and quietly, certain she'd sneer and turn away at the greeting. Instead she merely gave him a consoling smile—not in a mocking fashion, but with genuine feeling.

"Agrinak, it is my pleasure to meet you," she said softly, pronouncing his name incorrectly as most Bretons did, with 'grin' in place of 'gro'. "The customs of Wayrest dictate that those who share a meal together abandon the formalities of titles. It's become almost a formal ritual in itself."

"Thank you..." He wasn't sure how to say her first name. Deciding to guess based on what he knew of Imperial names, he finally attempted it, calling her 'Care-iss-ah'.

"It's pronounced 'ser' like serjo, 'eese' like geese," she corrected gently, not offended by the mistake. "Ser-eese."

"My apologies."

The conversation was interrupted with the serving of the first course, a salad featuring several choice out of season vegetables, some of which he'd never seen before. Waiting to observe which silver utensil the other diners chose first, Agronak decided to pay more attention to the customs and habits of the present company. Synderius' list of do's and don't's at dinner seemed woefully inadequate.

During the consumption of the salad, one of the best he'd ever eaten, Cerisse inquired as to his travels (uneventful—lying on a bunk for five days straight certainly qualified), his opinions of Wayrest (beautiful—at least, from what he could glimpse through the fog), and his home at Crowhaven. This last question elicited the same reply he'd given Karethys, in which he rambled politely on the various four-legged inhabitants of his village. Even Synderius had agreed there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with Agronak discussing his flocks of sheep, his fields of wheat, or the colour of his tomatoes.

By the time the salad plates were cleared away he was beginning to wonder just how early he could leave the palace. His head was pounding, and a thin sheen of sweat coated his body, the moisture on his back inflaming the itchy welts. Despite Cerisse's sporadic attempts to keep the conversation flowing, he found himself caring far less about being polite and much more about getting back to the inn and his wobbly bed.

In fact, her gentle questions about the pedigree of his livestock were starting to annoy him. It was just after her inquiry about what sort of feed his sheep favoured that one of the nobles across the table decided to break into the conversation.

"You're a farmer? Not exactly the sort of profession one expects from your kind," he said loudly. Leaving a small pause, in which Agronak reminded himself of Synderius' orders to not rise to any bait, no matter what, the man finally continued in a quieter tone. "A warrior, I mean."

"My villagers are farmers," Agronak responded flatly. In his peripheral vision he noticed Lady Buckingcroft turn, give him a cold appraisal, and then look away once more with a small sneer.

"So you _are_ a lord," the man said in an oily voice. "Not that I ever doubted it for a minute. Just look at you."

The nearby guests snickered, Agronak noticing that all of them were covered in gems and precious metals, while he didn't even have so much as a brass button on his jacket. But he didn't feel inadequate—if anything, after over a decade of being, and knowing, he was the best of the best in the Arena, he'd struggled to make sure he didn't develop an over-inflated ego. Synderius had been far too willing to help keep Agronak grounded.

But the contempt in the face of the man across from him, his soft body swathed in expensive finery, his superiority based on the wealth and actions of his forefathers, only reinforced the notion that Agronak didn't belong here, with these people. Which was fine with him, because right now he wanted nothing more than to leave them to their petty conversations and cruel gossip. Lilia's complaints about self-important nobility made far more sense to him now.

"That was a favour of the Empress, wasn't it? Getting you recognized as a _lord_?" Sarcasm dripped from the questions of the younger man across the table, who'd decided to join in the interrogation.

"My father was a lord," Agronak responded, trying to maintain a fixed cold stare at the Breton. Synderius had warned him not to say anything at all about Lilia or Martin, or any other political topics.

"Yes," the older Breton gestured idly with his silver goblet, dismissing Agronak's parentage, "but everyone knows it was her influence that made it official. She is a good _friend_ of yours, isn't she?"

As the others waited for his reply, Agronak tried to remember who the man was, sure that Karethys had said something about him during their chat under the pale white blossoms and dancing magical lights. Bantering with the societal equivalent of slaughterfish was something he felt woefully unprepared for.

"We know each other," he answered carefully. The Breton raised a skeptical eyebrow at the reply, while the younger man snorted with disdain.

"She knows many powerful men very well, doesn't she? Like the Fighter's Guild Master..."

"The High Chancellor," one of the ladies added, scandalous undertone to her words.

"That Telvanni," another voice contributed.

"_King_ Gortwog," the young Breton said the title with a derisive sneer.

"Really, she's a very friendly woman, isn't she? Quite happy to make the acquaintance of any race. Wouldn't you agree?" the man who'd initially started the questions asked Agronak pointedly. The side conversations at the end of the table had dropped off, and he recognized the atmosphere. It reminded him of the Arena, when the crowds were waiting for the gates to drop, eager for blood to be spilled.

He suddenly remembered who the Breton was—Lord Ashcroft. Karethys had discussed the habits of Lady Ashcroft, the alleged affair with their Bosmeri blacksmith and their Khajiiti groomsman. Taking a few moments to compose his reply, breathing deeply to calm himself, he finally sat forward, friendly false smile affixed to his face.

"Oh, I wouldn't say it's unusual to meet other races in the heart of the Empire. In fact, I think Lady Ashcroft would enjoy a visit to the Imperial City. I know that there are many there who would greatly appreciate her particular brand of _friendship_."

The sharp intake of breath as the eavesdropping nobles were surprised by the veiled insult sounded very much like the rustling of a serpent through a bed of dry leaves. At the moment it was music to his ears, while the sight of Lord Ashcroft's face, pale and devoid of blood, was vying for position as the nicest thing he'd seen while in this Gods forsaken city of fog and prejudice.

The whispers started again, soft comments about the audacity of Orcs, the friendships of the Empress, and even a few questioning ones about the proclivities of Lady Ashcroft soon replacing the silence. Meanwhile Agronak held the man's hateful stare, refusing to look away or be intimidated by the vile, arrogant noble. It was the arrival of the waiters, bearing the main course, which caused Lord Ashcroft to finally break eye contact.

"Agrinak," Cerisse's soft voice caught his attention, and he realized he'd forgotten all about the quiet lady who'd been speaking to him throughout dinner. She was pointing down to the floor between their chairs. "Can you get my bag for me? I'm afraid I knocked it off the table, and I can't reach."

It took a brief search, necessitating the navigation of the long tablecloth, but he finally managed to locate the dark green purse. She thanked him politely for its retrieval and he turned his attentions to dinner. It smelt wonderful, and he was sure it was of the highest quality, just as everything in the castle seemed to be. Other than the company.

Deciding to start with the roast, he located the appropriate fork and knife to use from the extensive collection beside his plate, and commenced cutting it into easily enjoyed pieces. That is, until he noticed the fine white dust coating the surface of the meat.

The pit of his stomach sank as worry ran through him. The offhand remark Synderius had made, in which he'd warned Agronak if the nobles didn't want to chat politely he was to watch what he ate, echoed through his mind. From what he could see of the roast on Lady Buckingcroft's plate there was no trace of powder.

His mouth went dry, and he finished off the last of his wine from the deep goblet. He could handle magic, swords, and arrows, but poison was something that he was just as vulnerable to as anyone else.

"The beef is from the Queen's personal herd. Try it," Cerisse gently urged.

"I, uh, don't eat beef," Agronak answered. "It interferes with muscle growth."

"Really?" Her green eyes regarded him skeptically. "I thought meat was essential to warriors."

"It is, but only certain types. Ham is. Beef isn't," he lied quickly, while surreptitiously inspecting his vegetables and rice for any traces of powder. While he couldn't see any, he wasn't about to take the risk.

"It isn't considered good form to reject the Queen's food, except in highly unusual circumstances," she whispered to him. "Just so you know."

"Mmm," he murmured while continuing to push the meal around on his plate. As far as he was concerned a potential mouthful of poison qualified as unusual circumstances. Weighing his options, he decided that appearing rude for ignoring dinner probably wasn't as bad as suddenly dying at the Queen's dining table.

The rest of the meal was spent in attempts to make the food on his plate appear diminished, including several minutes spent discreetly compressing the vegetables with the tines of his fork. It may not look as though he'd eaten much, but at least it wouldn't be easy to tell that he hadn't so much as tasted dinner.

Desultory conversation with Cerisse was his only distraction as he spent the rest of the meal without eating another bite. By the time dessert arrived, a precarious towering confection of pastry, berries, custard, and nuts, he wasn't concerned with faking the appearance of eating so much as getting out of the castle.

The illness he'd begun to feel at the start of dinner was getting worse, trickles of sweat running down his back to start little bonfires of irritation whenever they contacted a bite. The use of his napkin to dry his brow resulted in several derisive comments amongst the nobility, but somehow he thought they'd be even more offended if he began dripping on the table.

"...alright?"

Cerisse's quiet question had been partially lost to the ringing in his ears, and he gave her a blank look.

"I asked if you were feeling alright?"

"Quite fine," he lied. Movement further up the table captured his attention, and a wave of relief raced through him when he saw the Queen and Royal Consort stand, marking the end of the meal. He watched the men stand first, offering to escort the ladies to the parlour, where a group of musicians would be playing as the evening's entertainment. Imitating them he pushed his chair back and stood.

It wasn't a successful attempt, his legs refusing to cooperate as requested, and all he managed to accomplish was a bounce in his seat. Changing strategy, using his arms to help push him up, he got to his feet. There was a weakness to his joints, the feeling that any second they'd suddenly soften, bringing him tumbling down to the floor.

Holding onto the back of the chair for support, he offered Cerisse his hand. The concerned look she gave him didn't compare to the concern he felt as his vision greyed around the edges.

"I need to..." he started saying.

"The washroom is down that corridor," she offered. "But maybe you should have some water first. I'll get you a glass."

With a shake of his head he declined, and began walking towards the door, though it was more of a lurch, his limbs somehow both stiff and loose. Through the high pitched tone that sang in his ears he managed to hear the disapproving comments of the other nobles.

"_Drunk. And it's not even midnight."_

"_That's what happens when you let those creatures have any alcohol. They can't control themselves."_

"_Well, it's not like they're much more than talking beasts. What else could you expect?"_

Leaving the insults behind, he stumbled his way back through the flowering fruit trees, the flowing fountains, and out into the familiar fog. From what he could remember there was a chapel nearby. The idea of staying and placing himself in the tender care of the Queen's healers wasn't even considered.

Convincing his legs to keep walking, he quickly grew disoriented, unable to tell if the dark grey in his sight was due to illness or fog. The chill moisture in the air combined with the cold sweat that covered his body. The constant whine in his ears had reached a screaming pitch, and he could no longer make out the sound of his own laboured breathing.

He certainly couldn't hear the footsteps behind him, though he definitely felt the explosion of pain as something struck the back of his head.


	6. Regarding Proper Farewells

"I hate this damn fog. You can never be sure what's lurking nearby," the young guard stated, glancing around as if unseen assassins were about to attack.

"Etienne, you fool, do I have to explain everything to you?" the older man asked. "Don't you know that if you can't see them, it means they can't see us?"

"Oh. Right," Etienne agreed. They continued walking in step, metal uniforms jangling with each movement. "Er, sir, which 'them' are you talking about?"

"The Captain and his officers," he answered with a rap of his hand on the younger man's helmet. Honestly, the new recruits seemed to get stupider every year.

"Is that why we're patrolling the flower beds?"

"Exactly. A lot safer this way, and there's a nice bench in the far corner. Perfect for a rest."

"Ah, brilliant," the younger man said with a touch of awe.

Night patrol was the worst shift to get in the city, unless you knew the tricks to make it bearable. He'd learnt them all during his years with the guards. He'd turned down promotions so he could continue to make use of them—next level up brought higher pay, mountains of paperwork, and superiors always keeping an eye out. No thanks—he'd happily stick with his current pay and ability to take naps as needed.

"Sir, I hate to ask, but is that a foot?" Etienne had fallen out of step, staring down at the ground.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's a trick of the light," he answered, barely glancing back at the suspicious looking lump of dirt.

"No, sir, it's a foot. Attached to a leg. And here's the other foot," the younger man said as he took hold of them. With a tug he pulled out a body, which had been curled up under a large bush.

"Dead?"

"Ah, no. Wouldn't say that, sir, as he's groaning, so I think he's still alive," Etienne answered.

"What did I tell you about your mouth?"

"Not to let it get smart. Sorry, sir."

"Is that an Orc?" He'd never seen one who looked quite like that. Of course, in all his years on patrol he'd never seen a naked, grey anything tumble out from under a rhododendron before.

"Appears so, sir. Tuck him back in and get on with securing the bench?"

"No, you idiot," he punctuated the reprimand with another knock to Etienne's helmet. "Do you want to be responsible for the Queen finding a drunken, naked Orc in her garden tomorrow morning? Now float him off to the dungeons with that spell of yours. And since you found him, you get to fill in the forms."

"Thank you, sir."

He decided to ignore the heavy sarcasm in the reply, and instead watched as the failed Mages Guild apprentice attempted to levitate the Orc. His spell sank into the grey skin, but the body didn't leave the ground. "Good thing we don't require magic tests on the entrance exams, eh, Etienne?"

"Yes, sir. Though I should point out my spell is working fine, but he's got a strong form of magic resistance. Probably a potion, judging by the strength of it. He's not going anywhere."

"That sort of attitude won't get you far. Looks like you'll have to do it the mundane way."

"Mundane way, sir?" The young man gave him a curious look, tinged with a hint of suspicion.

"What we do when magic doesn't work. Now pick that vagrant up, and carry him." Seeing Etienne hesitate, he started shouting. "Move it! That's an order!"

"Yes, sir!" The new guard sprang into action, aware of what that tone of voice portended if he failed to comply. Grabbing the Orc's wrists, he paused for a moment and looked up with wide eyes. "Umm, sir, he's not wearing any clothes. How am I supposed to carry him so that he's not...er, so his...uh, thing..."

"Simple." he answered, noting Etienne's smile of relief as he awaited another gem of wisdom, gleaned from years of experience. "Very carefully."

"Brilliant, sir," the young man replied dryly, a sour frown on his face.

* * *

Hands.

They were grabbing, squeezing, poking, pushing. All he could feel were hands. Right now they were lightly tickling his face, one warm fingertip pressed on his mouth.

Waking with a start, Agronak opened his eyes to find a rat sniffing at his nose, paws on his upper lip. The vermin fled before he had a chance to bat it away, and his surprised yell turned into a low moan of pain, his eyelids squeezed tight as his head throbbed in agony.

When he was able to open his eyes once more, he looked around and quickly surmised he'd never made it to a temple, or his rundown inn. Somehow he'd ended up in a cell—thin blanket on the rough wooden floor serving as his bed, barred gate making up one wall. Heavy stones made up the other walls, and a high window allowed the gloom of daylight to filter in. At least he wasn't chained up, or underground.

Though he was dressed in clothes that weren't his. A filthy tunic, tight in the arms but ridiculously large in the waist, brought a plethora of scents, none pleasant, to his nose. He didn't even want to look at the rough pants on his legs, very aware of the fact they felt _oily_ in spots.

"You lot never learn, do you? Why don't you stick to water and rocks, and leave the ale alone?" a grumpy looking guard asked as he sorted through his key ring.

"I'm not drunk," Agronak managed to mumble as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, vision blurring with the movement.

"Not drunk? And I'm Barenziah's bastard child," the Breton muttered to himself. The heavy tumblers of the lock slid into place with a loud clunk. In between the blinks he was taking, trying to clear his vision, Agronak watched as the man shoved open the gate while drawing out his longsword. "Get up, and get out. You can finish your beauty sleep in another town."

"Where are my clothes?" Agronak asked while rising, leaning against the wall for support.

"Don't know, don't care. According to the report you didn't have any to begin with. Hurry up."

"No clothes? What about my gold, my dagger?" Casting a small healing spell, hoping it would assist in staying upright, he tried to make sense of the situation.

The guard laughed. "Nice try, scum. As if your kind ever has two gold to rub together longer than it takes to get to the nearest tavern."

Shuffling forward, disappointed his spells weren't doing anything to lift the pain, he tried very hard to think clearly. "I was robbed. On my way back from the palace. There's been a crime..."

"It's called vagrancy. Illegal to sleep on the ground within the city walls," the guard stated while indicating with his weapon which direction Agronak was to go. "Let me give you a little advice. Get out of town while you still can, because we're far less lenient on repeat offenders. Go back to the mountains, and stay there."

"You don't understand. I'm Lord Lovidicus, from Cyrodiil, and I was at the Queen's dinner..." The press of sharpened metal against his neck halted his words.

"Sorry, _m'Lord_, I didn't recognize you. Wouldn't want you thinking we don't know how to treat _nobility_ here in Wayrest." The Breton's voice dripped with malicious sarcasm. "Why don't you consider those fine clothes a gift from us. A farewell present, if you understand my meaning."

"Perfectly," Agronak answered, swaying slightly as he waited for the man to open the thick metal door. With a stumble he stepped out into the city, finding himself next to the giant walls. They really were massive—guard stations had been built into them.

Very worried about his condition, he decided to try and get to the temple as quickly as possible. Since his spells were failing, it meant he'd either come down with a nasty disease, or he'd been poisoned at dinner. Judging by the timing of things, including the fact he'd felt poorly before he'd even taken a bite, it was probably an illness. Which didn't lessen his anxiety at all, because it was rumoured there were diseases in High Rock that could prove fatal in a matter of days.

It took several inquiries, and a few falls, before Agronak finally caught sight of the chapel. The vibrant blue paint was easily visible even through the dense fog. Pushing open the wooden door, he found himself in a small foyer. The heavy perfume of incense hung in the air, and he could hear the faint sound of bells further in the building. A very tall woman, Nord from the look of her, rose up from her chair at his entrance. She wore a flowing blue gown, the same hue as the paint on the outside. The dull light of the stained glass windows, hourglasses the prominent motif, illuminated her face with soft spots of colour.

"You're in the Order of the Hour," she stated firmly, as if she didn't think he knew where he was.

"Where's the altar?" Agronak asked, taking a step toward the door on the opposite wall.

"We don't have an altar," she said quickly, while moving to block his path.

"Isn't this a chapel? Don't you have a healer, or an alchemist?"

"We are a holy order of knights, sworn to protect the priests of Akatosh. This is not a temple," she explained. "What brings you here?"

"I need healing," he answered, trying hard to stay patient. The pounding in his head seemed to be getting worse.

"Our healer is dedicated to the assistance of our knights. If you want to join our order, we are always ready to welcome those who wish to pledge their life to protecting the true priests of the Divines."

"If I join, will you heal me?"

"Well, our healer is a very busy man. Only those who have completed their initiation can see him." Noting Agronak's unhappy moan at the reply, she quickly continued on. "We have several tasks to choose from. It shouldn't take much longer than a week to complete your three required missions."

"I don't have a week. Don't you sell potions?"

"Yes, we can do that." She paused, studying him for a moment. "I feel I must mention they don't work on a hangover..."

"I know that. Quickly, please bring me one to cure diseases."

"Of course. Ten gold." She held out her hand, waiting for payment.

"I don't have any money. I've been robbed. Please, can't you give me a potion, and I'll pay you back later?" He couldn't help keep the frustration from his voice. If only he was back home in Cyrodiil, chapels in every city staffed with healers who helped first, and discussed payment second...

But he wasn't in Cyrodiil, instead stuck in Wayrest, which he was beginning to regard as a minor realm of the Nine Hells. So it was little surprise when the Nord shook her head, and responded with an icy tone. "Our Order accepts all races, but we are not fools. Now leave, before I have you removed."

Not wanting to risk being arrested again, he stumbled back into the streets. Making his way from the chapel, occasionally pausing to lean against a wall for a rest, he tried to think of what to do next, while wondering what had happened to his clothes. The missing gold he could understand, but what purpose did it serve to steal his clothing?

"Psst. Irc."

The voice was so quiet he wasn't sure he was actually hearing it, or merely hallucinating. But that was the one symptom he hadn't experienced, and Agronak stopped walking, listening intently.

"Over here, Irc. Quickly."

The whisper was too faint to determine who was beckoning him, but the knowledge that only Synderius called him Irc banished any suspicions he had. As best he could figure it was coming from a small alleyway, between a house with a pen full of pigs, and a large bookstore.

It was a shock to find the source of the voice. The innkeeper's daughter was waiting for him, hood of her black cloak pulled up high, holding out some folded grey cloth and a wooden cane.

"T'os-i?" he asked, remembering the name from the innkeeper's grumbles.

"Shh. Put this on, and use this. Try to act like an old lady. Hurry!" She was draping the cloak over him as he balanced the cane on the ground. In his current state it was more of an aid than a prop.

"What are you doing? Where's..."

"Shut up!" The command was punctuated with a small push towards the street. "Bend over, and don't say a word."

Leaning over the cane, folds of fabric hiding his face from view, he tried to shuffle along like an elderly grandmother. Which is what T'os-i kept calling him, maintaining a soft stream of banter as she faked a conversation to her aged relative.

None of this made any sense. Why was she helping him, hiding him from view as if he was a fugitive, after calling him by Synderius' irritating nickname? What sort of trouble had the mer gotten himself into, and why did Agronak have to get caught up in it? And how was he going to get himself cured of this damned plague that robbed his strength and muddled his mind?

The unmistakable scent of rotten fish was the first indication they were nearing the inn. When the plaster walls, held up with thick timbers of unpainted lumber, appeared out of the fog Agronak smiled, enjoying the irony of being grateful to return to the rundown establishment.

His relief quickly turned to curiosity when she led him not up, towards the rooms, but through the back hallway towards the kitchen. Pulling what had appeared to be solid cabinetry forward from the wall to reveal a staircase, she commanded him to head down it. As soon as he'd stepped into the space she shut the passage behind him, leaving him alone in the dark.

It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust, and he could make out a very faint light source further down below, the edge of the planks that made up the steep staircase barely illuminated. As cautiously as he could, not trusting his weakened limbs, he made his way down until his foot touched compacted earth.

Thin slivers of gold shone through the slats in the door up ahead, the light coming from beyond it. Not much else could be seen, but he guessed he was in what had once been a cellar, though he saw no boxes, barrels, or shelves in the space. Which was a disappointment, because he was now feeling very concerned, realizing he'd followed the instructions of the Redguard without hesitation. He was unarmed, weakened, and alone, without so much as a piece of wood to use as a makeshift club.

At least, alone on this side of the door. Because he could hear someone on the other side, walking back and forth over the dirt floor. Rumours of terrible taverns, where unsuspecting people were drugged, kidnapped, and sold into slavery, suddenly floated up from his memories. Before this trip he'd dismissed such a thing as mere fancies, but now it seemed far more plausible...

"What if she can't find him? I should go look..."

The blessedly familiar voice removed any hesitation, and Agronak pulled the door open. Synderius was there, both hands cradling his neck, his worried expression melting into relief when he saw Agronak.

"Finally! How do you feel? What happened?" the mer questioned while guiding Agronak over towards a small bed. An oil lamp, glass chimney streaked with soot, provided the only illumination in the room. The walls were simple wooden planks, the ceiling so low both of them needed to duck.

As Agronak sat down, he saw what he'd thought were a clump of rags in the corner was, in fact, another person. An old woman stood up and came over, her movements surprisingly nimble despite her appearance. Her grey hair stuck out wildly in all directions, her skin was heavily wrinkled and dotted with age spots, and the hems of her ragged layers of robes, cloaks, and shawls trailed behind her on the ground. The mass of fabric looked as though it had been worn together for years, muted greys, browns, and greens all blending together, the addition of dirt merely adding another earthen shade to the palette.

"Drink this," her voice was quiet, remarkably smooth for someone so old. She was offering a dark green bottle, filled with liquid.

"What is it?" he asked, sniffing at it. There was a perfume quality to it, redolent of a garden of flowers. It didn't smell deadly. If anything, it smelt like something that should be added to a bathtub, not ingested.

"Go ahead. You'll feel better once you do," Synderius urged.

It tasted almost the same as it smelt, and for an instant he wondered if this wasn't some elaborate joke orchestrated by the Dark Elf, culminating in Agronak's drinking of bath oil. The potions he'd taken in Cyrodiil tended to be of a more refined flavour, sometimes mixed with juices or alcohol to improve the taste. This reminded him of petals being mashed in oil, left to sit, and then strained. It was awful.

"What do you remember?" the crone asked while scrutinizing him. "Where were you last night?"

"Jail. I got sick at the castle, then when I was outside something hit me in the head. I woke up in jail. I think I was robbed. They even took my clothes. Why would they take my clothes? I really liked that jacket..." he trailed off, thoughts skittering out of reach. A tranquility suffused his limbs, the pain in his head lessening as his mind drifted away. The conversation of the crone and the mer came to him as distant echoes, and he didn't protest when she began examining his head, fingers of steel gripping his neck as she pushed him around.

"They're convinced he's the one. Why did you bring him?" the old woman asked, her voice bouncing around in Agronak's mind. The placement of her hand on the sore spot caused a small jolt of pain to race through him, but it was the prickling sensation as every hair on his body rose in response to her murmured spell that registered through the potion induced mental fog.

"What did you do?" His mumbled inquiry was ignored as she pressed him down to lie on the bed. Synderius grabbed and swung Agronak's legs up onto the mattress. His limbs were so relaxed they refused to move, and his eyelids closed against his wishes.

"He was my cover. Why would anyone look twice at an Orc going to visit Gortwog?" Synderius' voice held a note of bitterness. "Why would they choose him?"

"Because they were expecting a noble from Cyrodiil. Don't give me that look—Baurus told me to feed them false information at my discretion. How much more of an opposite could Imperial nobility be compared to a Dunmer fighter?"

"And you didn't think to send word of what you'd invented?"

"Why would I? All that was supposed to happen was you would show up, complete your assignment, then leave. Even if by chance someone fitting the description came to visit, I thought they'd be able to take care of themselves. The nobility of Cyrodiil should be able to handle Wayrest..."

"If they know what they're doing. But if they're an unprepared half Orc..."

The old woman cut the mer off, speaking in a language Agronak couldn't understand. But the easy flow of the word _s'wit_ led him to understand she and Synderius were conversing in Dunmeris. The foreign words swirled around him, and he wasn't sure if he was awake, asleep, or simply dreaming. The sudden addition of a new voice, deep and curt, made him open his eyes.

"I don't know what he's done, what he's doing, and I don't want to know, but you need to get him out of here. They're asking about him all over town." A thick dark finger, attached to the highly annoyed innkeeper, was pointing at Agronak.

"I'll make the preparations," the old woman stated, "Rhaerton, he'll be out by the end of the day." She followed the Redguard out of the room. The sound of their footsteps—one heavy set, one quiet—came from the staircase.

"How do you feel?" Synderius asked, crouching beside the bed.

"Better," Agronak answered, gingerly sitting up. The expected pain and dizziness didn't materialize, and he put his feet on the floor. "Except I feel as though I should be very angry with you right now. What did you do this time?"

"It wasn't me!" Synderius protested while dragging a small table over towards the bed. He paused in his work, looking directly at Agronak. "I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"So will you start at the beginning, or am I to guess?" The anger he'd been building towards the Dunmer deflated with that contrite apology. Normally the mer resisted admitting his mistakes, and his willingness to accept blame indicated this wasn't the usual sort of trouble.

"I didn't tell you this before, but it was safer that way. The fewer people know, the better." The mer started his tale as he brought over a basin and pitcher of warm water, placing them on the table. "Do you remember Baurus?"

"Of course. He's Martin's bodyguard." Seeing the familiar sight of his bag, brought over from the corner, Agronak smiled. At least he'd be able to change out of these filthy clothes.

"Not just his bodyguard—he's one of the Blades. And so am I."

The laugh at the Dark Elf's ridiculous claim died on his lips when he noticed the mer was being serious. "You? Who would make you a Blade?"

"There is more to their work than just guarding the Emperor. They need people to gather information, go undercover on delicate missions..."

"Wait, is that why you've been traveling constantly for the past two years? I thought you were finally taking your career seriously." He'd been almost proud of Synderius' sudden decision to seek out trainers in all corners of the Empire, to hone his skills against other warriors.

"It's the perfect cover story. You obviously didn't suspect a thing," the mer answered as he sat himself on the chair in the corner.

"Does that mean we're on a mission out here in this damned city? And what does it have to do with me?" Agronak flung the stained tunic onto the floor and grabbed the sponge in the basin. "And what about the staff? Did I spend an entire day looking for something we didn't need to get?"

"Lilia wants her staff," Synderius replied with a shake of the head. "And somehow I'll have to find her one. Otherwise I can't tell you exactly why I'm here. It's pretty serious, though, and there are those who wish to see it fail. They, uh...they think you're me."

Pausing mid-swipe, Agronak glanced over to the very guilty looking mer. His hands were working his neck again, causing Agronak's stomach to sink. This was bad. "And what are they planning to do to me, thinking I'm you?"

"They're looking for a...document, right now. That's why they drugged you and stole your clothes. From what Rhaerton's told me they're trying to find your inn, probably so they can break into your room and search your belongings."

"Drugged? I was sick.."

"Rhaerton is a retired Blade—he'll make sure nobody knows we were ever here. But it's too dangerous for me to stick around," Synderius continued on, looking at a spot near Agronak's feet.

"So we're going back to Cyrodiil? Finally. I'm sick of this wretched city." Ever since he'd woken up on the wrong side of a jail cell Agronak had wanted nothing more than to go back to Crowhaven, away from the prejudiced Bretons and their ugly town.

"No, you can't go home." Synderius shifted uncomfortably on his chair. "When they can't find the document, they'll either try to abduct you for questioning, or just decide to kill you. If you try to go back to Crowhaven now they'll probably choose the latter. It's too dangerous."

"Kill me? I'd like to see them try." Agronak scoffed while pulling out the ointment Synderius had given him. The welts on his back itched terribly, but at least they were the only discomfort in his body. "I don't care what they might or might not do. I'm not spending another day in this hole. Now just point me towards the docks."

"I can't do that. I'm sorry, Agronak, but you're not going home."

"How exactly are you going to stop me?" This was getting ridiculous. Whatever secret plot the mer was involved with had nothing to do with him. As if these mysterious foes would follow him back to Cyrodiil and kill him.

"I don't have to. You won't be able to sail without a ship. Your gold was stolen, remember?"

The combination of the burning sensation on his back, as the ointment's magic began to work, as well as the mer's very valid argument, elicited a low growl from Agronak.

When the door to the room suddenly swung open he tensed, surprised by the return of the old hag. "They can't wait much longer. Go now, or you'll have to swim," she stated to Synderius.

"One more minute," the mer replied without looking at her, walking over towards Agronak. She nodded and closed the door.

"Irc, listen. You and I aren't the only ones involved in this mess. That woman is in just as much danger as you are, maybe even more, and she needs to be protected," Synderius whispered while pointing at the door. "Until the situation is over, I need you to keep her safe."

"An old crone..." He couldn't see what she possibly had to do with anything.

"Does it matter how old she is? She needs a guardian. She needs a _hero_."

That was not fair. While he could easily leave the Dunmer to fend for himself, certain of his abilities, a frail old woman didn't have the same chance.

"Most likely nothing at all will happen, and you'll simply have to enjoy a small tour of High Rock. But if anything does occur, well, you'll probably save her life, and be securing the stability of the Empire at the same time," Synderius added, pressing the point. "Would you leave an old lady to die? Turn your back on the Empire?"

"How long?" Agronak grumbled, not at all happy about the plan. Babysitting an elderly woman was at the bottom of his list of things he'd like to do. Right now going home and never thinking of High Rock again was at the top, just above beating some sense into Synderius.

"Not long. I must go," the mer stated, patting Agronak on the shoulder. He paused before he opened the door. "Take care of yourself, Irc."

"You don't have to tell me that, you daft s'wit. Be sure to come back in one piece." As the mer disappeared behind the door, Agronak called out one last thing. "And it's Orcperial!"

He was tugging on a fresh pair of pants when the elderly woman returned to the room, busy mentally cursing his luck as small questions about this barest of plans occurred to him. How was the mer going to find him? What did he mean when he mentioned touring High Rock? And who was this frail crone he was supposed to be guarding?

"Agrinak, are you feeling alright?" she asked quietly while looking him over, pronouncing his name wrong just like everyone else.

"I'm fine," he replied tersely. "Though I have no idea who you are, or why I'm going to be following you around like a lost puppy for Gods only know how long."

"The second mystery will take longer to explain, but I can certainly solve the first," she replied with a smile. "I'm Cerisse Hawkton. It's good to see you again."

Taking the hand extended in greeting, Agronak's observation that the old woman had the same name as the young lady he'd met last night died unspoken, his jaw dropping as his eyes tried to digest the sight of years melting away right before his eyes.

As he stared at Cerisse, looking youthful once more, he couldn't help wondering what Synderius had gotten him into now.


	7. Transportation Options of the Iliac Bay

"You're either up early, or very late."

"Amusing," Edwistyr answered dryly as he entered the room. His eyes widened as he walked over to the wall, running his hand over the surface as if he couldn't trust his sight. "Frostfire, did Ysausa have the murals changed again? Are those dwarves riding unicorns?"

"I try not to contemplate it," Theodyrick replied tartly, the beginning of a headache creeping around the edges of his brain. It was hard enough trying to think without having to contend with the spectacle of jousting dwarves performing for a crowd of ants. The decorator must be having a joke at Ysausa's expense. And his expense. Working the cost out based on the covered area meant his room must be decorated with the richest group of insects ever painted.

"He didn't have it," Edwistyr said, and it wasn't a question. Smirking, the young man walked over to his favourite settee. "And you still haven't found where he's staying."

"It must be a private residence," he said flatly. It unnerved him whenever his cousin knew things he'd only learned minutes ago. "It's just a matter of time."

"It's a waste of time. He's not the one." Edwistyr reached forward to grab a grape from the tray on the table, tossing it up into the air and catching it between his teeth. The man's arrogance could be infuriating at times, and now was such a time.

"I seem to recall you sitting in my study yesterday, convinced he was, indeed, the _one_. What exactly has changed since last night?"

"My source. Seems you've targeted the wrong noble." Resting his hands on the cushion, he leaned back and stretched out his legs.

"Really? Now, after all that work, after confirmation from others, after getting Lady Yeomsley involved, you try to tell me he's innocent, that Elysana invited an Orc to dinner because she _wanted_ to?" His voice was steadily rising, anger building at the smirking man across from him.

"I told you not to bring Karethys into this. Course, I told you not to touch her."

"I will not have you lecturing me on my choice of lover," Theodyrick warned, his face flushed with annoyance. They'd had this discussion enough times already.

"She's a necromancer!"

"They've never proven that!"

"She keeps Lord Yeomsley locked up in the cellar! Her tea is served by skeletons, and they say she even has a pet..."

"Enough!" he shouted, cutting off the argument. "What proof does your source have it isn't him? Or am I supposed to take your word for it?"

"You should take my word for it," Edwistyr stated coldly, "but there's more to it than that. Do you know where he's going next?"

"Orsinium, of course." With Gortwog's involvement there was only one place the agent could go.

"No. Menevia."

"Menevia?" Theodyrick scoffed. There was nothing worthwhile in Menevia, at least not after Elysana had already given away the best parts. "Why would he go there?"

"He's got a job. Seems your help stole all of his money, so he's been forced to earn his passage home. He's a _bodyguard_ now," the young man said with amusement.

"Who would be foolish enough to hire an Orc with delusions of nobility as a bodyguard?" This was ridiculous—Edwistyr must be joking again. No self respecting noble would ever employ an Orc for protection.

"Cerisse Hawkton," was the grinning reply.

Oh.

* * *

The land rolled away, lost to the curtains of rain and encroaching darkness. While they'd left the fog behind, there still wasn't much more visibility to be found. The occasional brilliant flash of lightning outlined the spindly trees, interspersed between the twisted wreckage of an old forest, large burnt stumps obstinately refusing to yield an inch of ground to the usurpers.

Another bump and jostle further inflamed the irritation on the back of his body, and he sighed softly. While it wasn't as bad as traveling by boat, riding in the carriage over the roads of High Rock couldn't be termed enjoyable either. Trying to get comfortable, he drew the grey cloak T'os-i had given him further around himself as he settled into the cushioned seats. Cold air rolled off the glass windowpane, and a slight draft floated over his feet.

"Just another hour or so," Cerisse stated without looking up from her book. The woman was a complete mystery, and Agronak still didn't understand what role she played in the situation. Not that he'd been able to determine what the situation was, having the vaguest understanding _they_ wanted to kill him. Or her. Maybe. And somehow it was Synderius' fault.

She'd revealed nothing further in the secret cellar under the inn. After re-introducing herself, and asking Agronak a few questions, she'd urged him to pack up and come with her. Once more she'd assumed the appearance of a withered old crone, and he still had no idea how she did it. From what he'd heard, illusion skills merely created the appearance of something other than the truth. But he'd felt the wrinkles in her hand turn into smooth skin, which was beyond any illusion magic he knew.

To his surprise she'd guided him to Gondynak's Shields, both of them pretending to be aged old women. Durog had locked the door behind them, and Cerisse had looked normal as she'd asked the blacksmith to get Agronak appropriately armed.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, pulling his attentions from the ceiling, covered in black leather, where he'd been idly watching her light spell. It wasn't like any he'd seen before—the orb of illumination wandered about the roof of the carriage, occasionally drifting along the walls, and he'd once found it floating above his head, as if investigating him.

"Fine," he answered.

"You're sure? No pain in your head, stiffness in your joints?"

Her green eyes were sweeping over him again, and it disconcerted him she apparently expected him to feel poorly. "It's a bit cold."

"It always gets cooler closer to the mountains," she said, giving him the barest hint of a smile. Holding out her hands, she waited for the orb of magical light to float down in a circuitous route, eventually coming to rest in her palms. Bringing it in towards her face, she cupped it with both hands and whispered something just under the edge of hearing. The light shifted colour, from a pale yellow to a soft orange, and with a gentle push she sent it back up to roam along the top of the carriage.

"What did you do?" Agronak demanded, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck slowly settling down. Little goosebumps coated his body, as they did whenever she used magic around him.

"I though you wanted a little warmth." Her eyebrows crinkled together, creating a furrow in her brow.

"No," he said, "what did you cast? What school of magic is that?" With the very strong natural resistance he possessed most magic didn't affect him, powerful destruction spells being no more than an annoyance. His career in the Arena would have been much shorter if he'd needed to resort to enchanted items, or complicated spells, to help keep him alive.

"It falls into no school, because it can't be taught to everyone. It's the oldest form of magic, replaced by newer spells that almost, but don't quite, do the same thing. Few mages remember it. Even fewer share the knowledge," she answered in that calm, quiet voice of hers. Everything about her seemed languid, and he couldn't picture her rushing for anything. "Why do you ask?"

"I feel it. I'm almost immune to magic, but every time you do something I can sense it," he explained, sitting up.

"Your father was a shaman?" she asked, tucking a small piece of emerald ribbon into her book to mark her spot. From what he could determine it was written in Ta'agra, the language of the Khajiits. According to her it was a romance novel.

"My father was an Imperial."

"Then your mother must have been," she said while placing the book onto the seat beside her. It bounced up and down on the upholstered bench, rocking with the motion of the carriage.

"No. She was a maid."

Cerisse studied him for a moment, before pointing an arm at him and whispering a soft incantation. He gasped as once more every hair on his body stood on end.

"You must have one somewhere in your family tree. You're especially sensitive to nature magic. Did you never learn to see the fae?"

"I don't even know what those are," he answered truthfully. The heat from the ball of light had chased away most of the chill, and he freed his hands from underneath his cloak. "But I know some spells. Watch." With a bit of concentration, he floated her book off the bench and over to land beside him. "Telekinesis."

"What is the point of that?" she inquired, looking rather unimpressed with the demonstration.

"It's very useful," he protested, mildly annoyed she hadn't been amazed by his skill. The book had barely wiggled, unlike the shaky results he'd had when he'd first learnt it. "You could use it on something too high to reach."

"Or you could just levitate," she added gently, while playing with the trim of her coat sleeve, one fingertip idly tracing the pale green satin piping edging the dark green velvet. Everything she wore was a shade of green, from the muddy green brown of her shoes, to the apple coloured gown, to the dangling jade earrings that bobbed with each motion of the carriage.

"You could pick up something too heavy to lift," he stated.

"There are other ways to carry heavy loads," she retorted with a shake of the head.

"You could use it to fetch little items, like an inkwell on the other side of the room." That trick had come in handy more than a few times in his study, where he had a terrible habit of switching from desk to sofa to handle correspondence, always finding the inkwell and quill in the wrong spot when he next wanted them.

"Now that's just being lazy." A small smile softened the words, and she reached out to take back her magically stolen book. He passed it to her, feeling the hilt of his new sword press into his side as he leaned forward.

It was too much, and yet she'd brushed away all of his protests, claiming it wasn't her generosity he should be thanking. Except she'd been the one arranging payment with Durog, and he'd been the one walking out with an adamantium shield and the most beautiful sword he'd ever seen, as well as a set of leather armour. According to Cerisse if he felt the need for heavier armour they could arrange for it once they arrived at their destination, but they hadn't the time to get a full suit fitted for his use in Wayrest.

Something felt off about the situation. While she'd urged him to arm himself with the best Durog had to offer, she'd refused to even consider a weapon. For someone he'd been told was in great danger, she seemed remarkably unconcerned about protecting herself. And he still wasn't sure why the blacksmith had laughed so hard when Agronak had suggested she try using a shortsword.

The carriage hit a dip in the road, causing him to bounce heavily on the seat. "Are we taking the back road?"

"This is the smooth part," she answered while staring out the window. "It gets worse after Kirkwood."

"Why is it so rough?" He couldn't imagine roads in a poorer condition than the one they were currently on.

"The Bay. Everyone uses ships to sail around. It takes less than a day by water to get to Chesterburgh, on the coast of Menevia, or at least three days by carriage," she answered, turning to face him. "But we couldn't wait for the next boat, so we're going by land."

"You can see more of the scenery this way," he joked, before staring out into the pitch black night. Beads of water ran down the glass, tracing thin patterns reminiscent of spiderwebs.

They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Cerisse's calm demeanor was somehow familiar, her quiet presence easily forgettable.

Another flash of lightning lit up the world, allowing him to catch sight of the new forest growing up around the devastation of the old one. The burnt stumps and charred landscape had been present for most of the journey. "It must have been a large fire," he offered. Noting her curious look he explained. "The forest fire. It burnt for miles."

"It wasn't a forest fire. It was war," she said quietly. "Nobody knows why, or how it happened, but Gortwog's forces managed to take Ripcart Moor during the Warp in the West. Eadwyre's army beat them back to the borders of Orsinium. It was a very hard fought campaign—the last one to end. The wounds are still healing."

"Where's Ripcart Moor?"

"We rode through it already, a couple of hours back."

"I didn't notice." He'd been watching the world pass by, occasionally marking the sight of lights through the fog, or the sleeting rain, but there hadn't been anything for a long time.

"You wouldn't have. It was completely destroyed," she answered, her words barely more than a whisper. One delicate finger was drawing patterns on her window, little feathers of frost trailing behind, melting away in a matter of moments.

Agronak shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold.

* * *

"Don't say anything, don't do anything, and try not to look threatening," Cerisse softly commanded, opening up the carriage door beside him. "I've arranged everything. Just follow me."

Stepping down, careful to avoid the large puddles of muddy water collected in the ruts of the dirt road, he tried to catch a glimpse of Kirkwood. It wasn't easy to see anything through the torrential rain, but he noticed several wooden buildings, most of them fairly new in appearance. Cerisse was walking towards the oldest looking of the lot, made out of rough hewn grey stone blocks. One section near the corner was black, as if stained by the soot of a powerful fire. It appeared Kirkwood had not escaped the war unscathed.

The carriage driver was cursing loudly, trying to handle their baggage with the assistance of a young Breton, probably a relative of the innkeeper. Resisting his impulse to help them, he trailed along behind Cerisse, attempting to somehow hold his new shield in a casual fashion. It was already polished to a bright sheen, but he wanted to give it another thorough polishing before he went to bed. With the constant damp he'd experienced in Wayrest it couldn't hurt, and he wasn't sure if adamantium was prone to rust. It would be a shame to let such a well fashioned piece get ruined because of some rain.

"Your meal, milady..." The innkeeper, a tall man composed of angles and suspicion, halted mid-gesture towards a small table. The room had fallen silent, Agronak very aware everyone was staring at him, and not out of curiosity.

Ignoring the tension, Cerisse walked over to the simple dinner—stew, bread, and milk—and sat down, her back to the door and her face towards the handful of patrons. A sharp glance bid Agronak to join her. Sitting down across from her he could hear the noise behind him as chairs were pushed back and men began grumbling to each other. He made sure he could reach his sword easily, certain this situation wouldn't end well.

"You can't bring one of those in here," the nervous innkeeper whispered to her, dark eyes staring at the room behind Agronak. Remembering Cerisse's instructions not to do anything he resisted his desire to shoot the man a hateful glare. One of _those_? Did the man fail to notice his ears, or the fact Agronak was sitting right in front of him?

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but it looks like you've picked up a stray. You'd best put it outside, before we put it out of its misery." A loud voice, bolstered by a fair share of ale, came from behind his right shoulder. If he rolled left while slashing sideways, he could probably gut the speaker...

"Leave us be," Cerisse responded, her voice calm, no trace of concern on her face as she stared up at the man. Counting the chuckles, Agronak was sure there were no less than six men behind them. They were probably simple folk—farmers most likely—and rather drunk. It would be an awkward fight, in this room cluttered with tables, chairs, and support beams, but he'd probably do fine on his own. Except there was Cerisse to worry about, and she didn't even have a weapon...

"Wish I could, ma'am, but we don't take kindly to livestock in our inn. Now you'd better be moving on with your pet pig, or we'll have a problem, and we don't like problems." Agronak could see the man as he stepped closer to Cerisse—his stocky body, his cruel sneer, and the hand on his sword hilt. Maybe if he hit him with a chair and knocked him down, then he'd be able to fight in front of her, keeping her safely behind him...

"Nobody likes problems," she said, while putting her finger into her mug of milk. "Especially ones that won't go away. Maybe we should talk about this over a drink. Here, have mine."

She offered the man her mug, while wiping her damp finger absently on the handkerchief in her pocket. Completely bewildered, Agronak watched the man blanch, his eyes wide with fear, as he looked into the cup.

"Not needed. I, uh, can't stay. Got to get home. Wife's sick," he stammered while fumbling with his coinpurse. "Let me, uh, pay for your meal. Sorry for the, um, interruption." The coins he flung onto the table jingled brightly, the noise lost under the confused murmurs of the other men as the frightened farmer hissed at them to get out of the inn.

Between the arguing whispers, heavy footsteps, and pouring rain, Agronak managed to catch the insult _witch_ before the door swung shut, leaving the nervous innkeeper, the calm lady, and the highly confused Orcperial alone.

"Delicious stew," Cerisse said politely to the Breton, who'd retreated behind the bar to watch her warily as he continually dried the same mug over and over again.

Tilting the mug towards himself, Agronak peeked at what had frightened everyone away. It didn't make any sense to him—unless she'd put a fear spell on the mug, he couldn't figure out what was so terrifying about curdled milk.


	8. How to Politely Discuss Politics

"Do you read?"

Pulled out of his doze, Agronak looked across to his traveling companion. She'd been quiet since they'd arranged themselves back inside the carriage in the early morning gloom. The rain had stopped overnight, thick clouds hung in the sky, and the damp air held a bitter chill to it. Able to see the landscape, he'd quickly discovered it might be better off unseen. The black husks of old forests, farms, and dwellings, offset by sickly looking scrub brush and young trees, was not an idyllic scene.

"I can read," he answered coldly, quite sick of being insulted by every Breton he met.

"Of course you can read," she answered with a small chuckle, the first real smile he'd seen appearing on her face. Guessing his thoughts with an eerie accuracy she continued. "Not every village is as..._friendly_ as Kirkwood. I hope you aren't getting the wrong impressions of High Rock."

"How could I not enjoy myself? With the beautiful weather, welcoming people,and diligent guards, it's perfect," he grumbled, annoyed at having been woken from his nap. His worry about retaliation from the farmers, despite her assurances they were perfectly safe, had prevented him from sleeping. The burning irritation of the skin on his back, flaring due to another application of Telvanni salve, had kept him from settling in comfortably until they'd left Kirkwood far behind. He was tired, uncomfortable, and a little cranky.

Her chastened expression did nothing to improve his mood—his money had been stolen, he'd been arrested, abandoned by his friend, told to protect someone who didn't seem to need any protection, all the while having the limits of his patience tested as he was insulted in every way possible.

"Their attitude is regrettable, but understandable. How familiar are you with the history of the Orcs?"

"Some. I know Gortwog won Orsinium in a brilliant duel. My mother used to tell me stories about it." It had been her oblique form of encouragement when he'd first started in the Arena. Her tales of powerful Orc warriors were meant to educate, and inspire. She hadn't been the type given to easy expressions of love.

"That's...not quite right," Cerisse said gently. "It took him years of hard work. He had to learn to speak Common, understand the laws of Wayrest, and find all the proper documentation, not to mention doing it in a land where Orcs weren't considered to be people."

"Doesn't seem to have changed much," he muttered.

"It has," she replied with a faint nod. "Years ago you'd get in more trouble for killing your neighbour's dog than a family of Orcs. They were categorized as _pests_. Nobility used to arrange hunts..." Seeing Agronak's shocked expression she hastily shifted the topic. "Things changed when he won Orsinium. The laws were amended, Orcs becoming a political force. But there has always been tension, with certain nobles feeling they'd been cheated out of their land by sub-humans; _pig children_, as some say."

"Like the nice fellows in the inn."

"They don't know better. It doesn't make it right, but you have to remember they lived through the war. It was violent and devastating to the area—you can see for yourself just how much," she pointed towards the window. "They blame the Orcs for starting the conflict, and for destroying their land. Neither side can ever be called innocent in war."

"That excuses it?"

"No," she said firmly. "That's the history—you should be aware of it. But just as there are people like them, there are others who are working to change their attitudes. Lord Buckwing, for example."

"From the Queen's dinner? What, does he advocate reclassifying Orcs as vermin?" The terrible rumours Karethys had told him about the Breton brought instant recognition of the name.

Cerisse laughed delightedly at the question, a small snort escaping her, redoubling her mirth. "Why would you think that?" she finally managed to inquire.

"I heard about his habits. Lady Yeoming..."

"Karethys," she interrupted, face darkening at the name. "How do you feel?" she hastily asked, as if the question had suddenly occurred to her.

"Fine. Why do you keep asking?"

"You were drugged by a dark mage. Of course I'm concerned about any after effects."

"Don't worry," Agronak shook his head. "I saw the poison on my dinner, and I made sure not to eat it. It was just an illness..."

"Agrinak," she interrupted, saying his name wrong once more. Her thin fingers were playing with the fur robes covering her lap, spinning little clumps of hair into peaked tufts. "That was the antidote. I put it there."

He opened his mouth, but wasn't sure what to ask first. It didn't matter—she kept talking, filling in the silence.

"Karethys gave you a glass of wine before dinner; she must have slipped something in to it. When I saw how ill you looked I knew what had happened, but I couldn't just offer you the antidote. So I knocked my bag off the table and kicked it under the tablecloth. The plan didn't quite work though." She shook her head at the remembrance. "You were too fast, and it didn't have time to dissolve before you sat back up. There was enough left to give you in a glass of water, but you left before I could get you to drink it."

"Do you often carry antidote around?" he blurted out, still trying to digest the fact that the woman across from him had tried to reverse poison him at the Queen's dinner table. Or that she'd almost succeeded.

"Only when I'm going to be dining with a necromancer. Or a Wickton," she answered with a faint smile. "I hope you aren't mad."

"No, just...disappointed. I was hungry, and dinner looked good," he joked gamely, still unsure how he felt about this new revelation.

"Then I'll be sure to make it up to you," she replied, pulling her traveling bag closer to her. She rummaged around in it, pushing the contents about. "I know you can read, but would you like to? I have a few books in Common, and a couple in Orcish..."

"No, thank you. I'm going to try and have a nap. Didn't sleep well last night," he answered while settling into the corner of the carriage. The constant vibration as the wheels rattled over the rocky ground frequently caused his head to bounce off the window, which had prevented him from falling into a deep sleep after their departure from the inn.

"Use this." Cerisse offered him a small blue linen pillow, pulled from her bag. "It should help."

He took it with a nod, arranging it behind his head. It smelt nice, of lavender and grasses, reminding him of the fields around Crowhaven in summertime—waist high wheat rippling in the gentle breezes, warmth of the sun shining down on his face...

* * *

"Agrinak. Wake up."

His body jerked, startled out of the pleasant dreams of golden fields and blue skies. Cerisse was standing on the carriage step, leaning in the open door.

"Where are we? Why have we stopped?" he asked, surreptitiously checking to make sure he hadn't drooled during his nap.

"The horses need a rest, the wheels need to be checked, and I need to stretch my legs. There's a picnic lunch, if you care to join me."

Nodding, he followed her, stepping out onto the ground. The first thing he noticed was the sunshine. The second was the scent of the pine trees—fresh, vibrant, cool. He'd never smelt anything so _clean_ before, each inhalation filled with the invigorating fragrance.

"Come. Let's find a nice place to sit," Cerisse beckoned him on with a wave, before heading into the forest. With a glance back, noting the carriage driver leisurely inspecting the wheels, contentedly smoking a pipe, he took a deep breath of refreshing air and followed along behind her.

She didn't say anything, keeping up a good pace as she led him past tall pines, through clumps of bushes, bare limbs awaiting the awakening presence of spring, and over the rough terrain. The rocky ground had the barest layer of dirt necessary for the stubborn foliage growing on it. It was uneven, large sections pushed up to form natural staircases, causing them to spend more time going up and down than forward.

Cerisse paused, standing in a sunbeam at the top of a crest, surveying the landscape. With a nod she turned to him and smiled, allowing him a good view of the sprinkling of pale freckles on her cheeks, highlighted in the brilliant sunshine. "We're almost there. This way."

The trees were thinning, and he could see glimpses of a clearing up ahead. A soft breeze, rustling the upper branches, and the sound of hidden birds were the only noises apart from their footsteps as they moved forward.

"I think this will do," she said, and Agronak had to agree. They were on an outcropping of bare rock, steep cliff falling away before them, magnificent view ahead of them. Giant mountains, dark brown peaks lost in the mist of low hanging clouds, rimmed the left hand side of the valley. A distant river carved a serpentine swath through the forest, visible between the bare branches and pine boughs far below.

"Where are we?"

"Foothills of the Wrothgarian Mountains," she answered, pointing towards the imposing mountain range. "This section runs south, creating a natural border between Menevia and Wayrest. Used to create a natural border," she quickly corrected herself.

"Wrothgarian Mountains. So Orsinium is..."

"That way." Her arm stretched out far to the left, almost at the edge of sight, where the nearby forest hid the mountains from view. "The city, at least. All of that," she swept her arm across, indicating the dark cliffs, "is part of Orsinium, the territory."

"And Wayrest..."

"Is over there," she stated, pointing to the far right.

"And we're headed that way?" he asked, motioning straight ahead.

"That way," she replied, gesturing over her shoulder, back at the forest. "Menevia is to the west, Orsinium to the north, and Wayrest to the south."

"Menevia is a city?" He wasn't sure of the geography of the area. He couldn't remember if he'd ever seen a map of High Rock before.

"There is a city with that name. Menevia used to be a minor kingdom, but it became part of Wayrest after the Warp. It's a territory now, just one of many that belong to Elysana," she clarified while flicking out a thin woolen blanket, bringing it down to rest on the surface of the rock. Slipping off her shoes, she stepped onto the fabric, sat down to face the view, and carefully arranged the folds of her skirt to cover her bare feet.

"So I'm not actually leaving Wayrest." Imitating her, he sat down cross legged beside her, trying to hide his sock clad feet under his knees. The cloak he wore didn't want to cover them, the width not enough to stretch out so far on both sides.

"The kingdom, no. But we got you out of the city," she said, pulling the other side of the blanket towards them, using it to cover their laps. With the addition of the warm fabric he relaxed, no longer concerned about frostbitten toes.

"Because that's where _they_ are. Who are they, by the way? Or can't you tell me that?" She'd been even more close mouthed about the situation than Synderius, not wanting to admit some sort of document was involved. He still wasn't sure what role she played in everything.

"No, but don't worry. After enough time in Menevia they'll forget all about you. Cold grouse?"

He took the prepared food, watching as she poked about in the basket. "How much time? I need to let my housekeeper know where I'll be. Is there a Mages Guild at Hawkton Court?"

"There's one in Cromville Commons. You can send her a message from there."

"That's where we're spending the night, right? Do I need to look non-threatening again?"

Cerisse laughed at the question. Grinning, she passed him some more food as she discussed their next destination, a quiet town on the other side of the escarpment.

He enjoyed the meal, the welcome warmth of the sun heating his shoulders, listening to her brief history lesson as she told him about the politics of the area, the previous existence of small kingdoms, protectorates, territories, and provinces. That had all changed with the strange events of the Warp in the West, the kingdoms of Daggerfall, Wayrest, and Sentinel absorbing most of the Iliac Bay region, while Orsinium expanded its borders to encompass most of the mountains, curling down beside the edges of Wayrest in the east, going as far south as to claim a former section of Hammerfell.

Apparently the boundaries were still shifting, Elysana having ceded a portion of Menevia, closest to the mountains, to Gortwog upon her succession. Cerisse explained that while nobody was certain, gossip attributed it as payment for his aid in her efforts to secure her position on the throne of Wayrest.

"So she'll bargain with Orcs, but not entertain them?" he asked, helping her shake the dirt off the blanket, the simple lunch finished.

"Gortwog doesn't travel to Wayrest very often, which is probably one of the reasons he's in such good health."

Not sure if she was joking or not, he passed her the folded cloth and turned back to look at the forest, curious about the sounds of breaking twigs. Positioning himself in front of her, pulling out his sword, he prepared for battle.

"Agrinak, what are you doing?" Cerisse asked, her hand briefly touching his shoulder.

"Wolf," he whispered, nodding his head to indicate the grey animal, almost hidden from view behind a large rock.

"You're hunting? Is that necessary?"

He could hear her moving around, calmly packing things away into the basket. "It'll attack any moment. Stay behind me," he warned. The wolf was watching them, ears flat against its head, ruff of fur standing up along the length of its spine.

"Shoo, puppy," Cerisse called out, walking in front of Agronak. "We don't have any food for you."

At her approach the wolf backed up, hesitated, then trotted quickly away, every now and again looking back at them as it disappeared into the forest.

"That was a foolish thing to do. What if it had lunged?" he chastised, sheathing his sword.

"Why would it have? We weren't in it's lair, near it's pups, or threatening it—at least, I wasn't," she answered with a bemused grin, not looking the least bit contrite. "Don't you have wolves in Cyrodiil?"

"Yes. And it doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing around them. They attack on sight." He accepted the basket from her, carrying it as she headed towards the forest once more. Instead of leading him back the way they'd come, she veered off to the side, inspecting the outlying pine trees.

"Really? How odd," she murmured, pulling a small circular blade free from it's embossed leather sheath, a flowing design reminiscent of elven scroll work etched into the tan hide. "Every wolf in Cyrodiil is rabid?"

"I don't think they're rabid. Just mean," he answered, curious as to her actions. She was pulling down the tips of the pine boughs, sniffing the new buds. Every now and again something about them pleased her, and with a smile and a small downward stroke, she'd cut off the tip.

"That's a shame. They're remarkable animals. Almost as loyal as harpies." Another slice of the curved silver blade, and another pine tree lost a future branch.

"What is that? And what are you doing?" Agronak asked. Holding onto a previously cut branch, he sniffed deeply, unable to scent anything other than sap.

"This is my sickle," the little blade was given a quick wave, "and I'm harvesting pine sprigs. Look for the buds that have just shed their protective cover."

"Is this for alchemy?" Potions were something he believed should be bought, not brewed. Making them was best left to the mages.

"Not really," she answered idly, shaking her head at Agronak's offered branch. "The best ones are from the east side of the trees. Those needles catch the most sunshine."

Searching the boughs, he finally found some he felt met her criteria. Approving with a small nod, she brought the tips up and sniffed. "Why are you doing that?"

"You should only take from healthy trees that offer. Smell this," she commanded, pushing the branch gently towards him.

"Smells like pine tree." The point to this activity eluded him.

"Close your eyes and try to smell the colours. It smells green."

He stared at her, waiting for her to laugh at her odd joke, certain she was teasing him. But all he saw in return was her expectant gaze, and the short stubs of the new needles wavering with each motion she made, urging him to try again.

Choosing to indulge her whims while pondering her mental stability, he took another deep breath, eyes shut tight against the daylight. It still smelt as he expected a pine tree to—fresh, alive, and growing. "I don't smell anything unusual."

"Exactly. Now try the tree next to it."

Oh dear. She was insane, and he was relying on her to help keep him alive from mysterious enemies who believed him involved in secret Imperial plots. Perhaps both she and Synderius were suffering from dementia, and he was caught in the middle as their two minds twisted, melted, and created dark forces out of nothing more substantial than shadows.

Grabbing hold of a branch he quickly closed his eyes and sniffed, eager to get this over with. Maybe when he got to the Mages Guild in the next town he could get in touch with someone who could really help him, and then he could leave this whole crazy province behind.

The scent of pine tree filled his nose once more, a cool fragrance of dark green needles, tinged with the earthy undertone of bark...

Sniffing again, he scarcely heard Cerisse walk up beside him. She moved quietly over the dry twigs and pebbles.

"Different, isn't it?"

"Bark. I can smell the wood."

"Right. This tree isn't ready to share. Come, I'll show you how to harvest."

The sunshine danced along the edge of the small silver sickle as she spoke of the importance of downward strokes, to pull in the moonlight. The collected cuttings, no bigger than a finger tip, needed to go into a leather bag, lined with green silk to keep the energy in. Her lesson was nothing like the offhand alchemy instructions he'd heard before, from snatches of conversing wizards or the wives of elderly farmers.

"Ideally we would do this in the early morning, when the fresh sun is captured in drops of dew, but these will suit fine," she said, watching closely as Agronak sliced off another end, adding it to the small collection in the leather bag.

"Why are we doing this? It's just pine needles." The trees grew everywhere—he couldn't see what was so special about these ones. Except they smelled a little bit different...

"If the pine needles didn't matter, then the coven wouldn't have asked for them," Cerisse replied, wiping the sickle with a piece of red felt. "Only ones from the mountains, rooted in the strength of rock, blessed with the warmth of the sun, and containing the silver light of the moons will do."

"You're a witch." It made sense now—the way the farmers had reacted to the sight of the curdled milk. He'd heard stories, superstitious folklore by his reckoning, about witches who could make fields go fallow, cause dairy cows to dry up, even blight entire crops.

"Not really," she answered with a smile, leaning a hand against a thick tree trunk as she paused on her way back into the forest, "I'm just one of their friends."


	9. Shopkeepers and Their Services

Stir three times clockwise, no more, no less.

Chuckling softly to himself, he complied with the instructions, grey hand pushing the warm water in the tub around. Task completed, he absently flicked his fingers, drops of excess moisture flying onto the rug.

The water didn't do anything other than smell good and look inviting. No bubbles, no strange colours, no glowing lights. Just a nice warm bath, waiting for an Orcperial who'd never before looked so forward to one.

Arranging himself in the tub carefully, making sure not to get wedged in (bathtubs were rarely built for Orcish bodies, especially tall Orcish bodies), he exhaled deeply as the heat penetrated his aching muscles.

The carriage ride the rest of the way to Cromville Commons had managed to make him think wistfully of his experience at sea. All conversation had been abandoned—with the constant jerks, bumps, and jostles there was a very real danger of accidentally biting off a tongue while trying to speak.

So they'd both spent the entire time grim faced, jaws clenched shut, trying various positions of arms and legs to keep from flying off the cushioned seats. Cerisse had managed best with her hands pressed against the ceiling, enough leverage being granted by the space between her shoulders and the roof to keep herself down.

Agronak hadn't been so lucky—with the carriage roof dangerously close to his head to begin with, he'd bumped into it a few times before realizing he'd have to duck, or otherwise lean, to prevent being knocked out by the ceiling. So he'd spent his time contorted in odd positions, none of them comfortable, though he was certain some of them had been amusing to his traveling companion.

At least she'd had the decency not to say anything when they'd finally arrived on relatively smooth roads once more. Though she had seemed very sympathetic about his stiff movements when they'd managed to extricate themselves from the carriage, and had given him a small tin filled with salts to use in his bath.

Along with her ritualistic instructions. It was almost amusing, the oddities of witch magic, but he wasn't going to joke about it to her face. Especially since she wasn't a real witch, as she'd assured him, but a _friend of the coven_. The difference seemed more semantic than actual, but she'd said it with a touch of pride, and a hint of secrecy, so he'd decided not to press the issue.

Besides, from what he'd heard witches weren't all that bad. After all, Lilia had hired Gwendolyn to care for Makela, and whenever he'd met her she'd been unfailingly polite, not at all sinister. She didn't even have the standard flyaway grey witch hair, with the texture of crushed straw, but rather soft looking blond waves. Cerisse's hair wasn't witch like either—at least, from what he'd seen of it. She always wore it up in a smooth bun, never a dark brown hair out of place. Maybe witches grew into the hair later in life.

Smiling at the painting of a sunrise, the view much like the one he'd seen when they'd eaten their lunch, he reflected that this inn—the Flying Scorpion—was the nicest one he'd stayed in so far. The room was small by Imperial City standards, and the furniture didn't match, but it made up in comfort what it lacked in elegance.

Glowing coals in the small firebox warmed the air, driving out the damp chill that hung outside. An inviting armchair sat next to it, set beside a low end table with a shelf, brimming with an assortment of intriguing books. The bed is what held his imagination—sturdy, piled high with quilts and blankets, the small blue traveling cushion Cerisse had lent him set amongst the pillows. Everything felt comfortable, familiar, and homey.

An effervescent tingling suddenly ran over his skin, hot and cold alternating in a pleasant rhythm, and he let his head relax back with a deep sigh. Yes, the bed was certainly his next destination...

Provided he didn't fall asleep in the tub first.

* * *

"You burnt it."

The young apprentice fumbled with the change, gold coins dropping onto the table.

"Agrinak..." The calming voice was accompanied with a gentle sensation on his arm.

He turned to Cerisse, her hand falling off his shoulder. "He set it on fire," he explained, pointing at the nervous mage, "he _burnt_ it."

"That's what they do," she stated calmly. The red faced Breton nodded emphatically, head bobbing up and down.

"I did not spend all morning writing that note to have a bloody mage set it on fire." His fingers were still sore from the time spent holding a quill. He'd managed to cover off everything, giving instructions about the manor, the planting, the farmers, the destruction of every piece of saltfish in the village...

"Now see..." the young man's words were garbled, high pitched with nervousness. Clearing his throat, and standing tall (though he still didn't reach Agronak's shoulder), he tried to look imperious. "Now see here. You wanted that sent to Anvil, and it's been sent to Anvil."

"No, it wasn't," he rumbled, "you _burnt_ it!"

"Agrinak," Cerisse hissed, tugging him away from the now very pale mage. "That's how they do it. Trust me."

He stared down at her suspiciously. Magical methods of communication wasn't a topic covered off in the Arena. The only missives the mages sent there were fireballs and conjured daedra.

"Now let me pay him, then we'll finish our errands." The gentle words were accompanied by a slightly arched eyebrow, and a tucked in corner of her mouth. She was amused with him—he recognized the expression from the bumpy carriage ride yesterday.

Nodding in agreement, he waited near the door, leaning against the dark wooden walls. The Cromville Commons Mages Guild hall was a rambling structure, hallways and doors leading off in all directions. An unnatural cold crept along the stone floors, and he resisted his impulse to kick his legs in an attempt to shake the slimy sensation off.

It was almost a relief when they were able to head back out into the misty day, tiny spheres of water beading on his new cloak. Cerisse had insisted on buying him one that fit better—the grey one far too small for his needs—and they'd stopped into a tailor's on the way to the guild hall. Brushing aside all of his concerns and questions about finances, she'd helped persuade him to choose a dark emerald hued cloak over a scarlet one. It wasn't until they'd left the store behind did he realize she probably hadn't been very impartial—he'd never seen her wear any colour besides green.

"This shouldn't take too long." One hand on the doorknob, Cerisse gave him a hint of a smile before pushing it open. "And don't touch anything—it might touch back."

_Experiential Products_. The faded letters on the door proclaimed the name of the small shop, but it certainly didn't provide any clues as to what sort of products were available to be experienced. Following her into the cluttered room, shelves and cupboards battling for floor space, he was assaulted by the heat and the unpalatable scent of rotten eggs.

"Lady Hawkton!" The thin man behind the counter greeted his customer while scrubbing his face with a well stained rag. Black smudges streaked his skin, and his muddy blond hair was much shorter in the front than the back—most likely due to accident than design.

"Mr. Coppersly, what new potion are you working on now?" Cerisse asked while moving over towards the counter. "Still trying to turn tin into gold?"

"No, it's much more important than that," he answered with a violent shake of the head. Staring keenly at Agronak, he leaned forward and whispered to her. "It's a secret. Come into the back and I'll tell you."

With a bemused smile, she told Agronak to wait for her, then disappeared with the shopkeeper into the other room. He could hear their conversation easily through the walls as he browsed the shelves. Some of the ingredients were familiar, brought in from Cyrodiil.

Seeing a jar of milk thistle flowers selling for six gold coins a piece, he wondered if he shouldn't abandon wheat and plant a new crop instead. The damned weeds grew thick around Crowhaven, always trying to choke out the gardens, or snag an unsuspecting pair of pants. He'd lost two pair to the infernal plants, and somehow they'd even managed to ruin a drying tablecloth on a windy day, much to Mrs. Palenix's perpetual amazement. On her last visit, Lilia had taken to burning every plant she found into dust, after she'd needed to change no less than four times in one day.

Reading the jars, he came across a series of incredibly costly, and fancifully labeled, ingredients. Troll's blood, mummy wrappings, dragon scales—they must be the names of rare plants. Surely that wasn't actually a vial of snake venom for sale, or a tin filled with rat teeth...

"It will help as much as possible, considering the circumstances," Cerisse soothed, walking back out with the smudged alchemist.

"When will it be..."

"Tonight," she stated firmly, and the man visibly relaxed. "Now, I'll need a few things besides the regular order. Let's see..."

Trying to ignore her requests for only the freshest of troll's blood, and the finest of powdered unicorn horn, Agronak occupied himself with investigation of the mineral section. Crystals, metals, and stones—some rough, some faceted, some made into beads—took up an entire section of shelving.

"Quite right. I almost forgot." Her voice came from beside him, and he looked over to see her inspecting the selection, deep in thought. "I think a turquoise, an amethyst, and a piece of jade will do the trick."

"Go right ahead." He stepped out of the way, allowing her easier access.

"I can't choose for you," she corrected him. "Pick the ones you think best."

Leaving him behind as she began browsing the shelves, he wondered what she meant. What made one rock better than a different rock?

Searching through the bin of turquoise, he amused himself while making a selection. That one was too bumpy, that one was green around the edge, that one wasn't blue enough...

Finding one that reminded him vaguely of a sheep, albeit a rather rock shaped one, he chose it and moved on to the amethyst. This was a little easier—he took the one that looked the most purple. The jade gave him a bit of trouble. She wore it often as jewelry, and he didn't want to pick one of the lower quality pieces. Maybe she was going to have it made into a pendant. Or perhaps this was a gift for her family. But if so, why wasn't she doing the choosing?

"Agrinak, are you ready?" Her inquiry from the counter, where several parcels had been wrapped up, pulled him from his reverie. Deciding to just go with the one he had in his hand, he joined her at the counter and put his rocks down. The satisfied nod she gave while looking them over was a bit of a relief.

The purchases paid for and precariously balanced in his arms, she led him across the market square back towards their inn. The soft ground, wet from recent rains, tried to trap his feet in a sea of grass covered mud.

"A love potion, eh? Do those work?" he asked with a grin. The shopkeeper's tale of his passion for a Yokudan seamstress was sweet, but nothing he could see meriting magical aid. From what Agronak had overheard the man simply needed to start talking to the object of his affections. It hadn't sounded as though he'd had any conversations with her beyond the discussion of pant hems and shortened sleeves.

"They do, but I don't know how to make one, and I wouldn't if I did," Cerisse replied, heedless of the mud staining the hem of her gown.. She didn't appear to have the same difficulty as he did in crossing the treacherous terrain, and he wondered if it wasn't because she had such small feet. Perhaps the larger the feet the more mud could grab them...

"You said you'd brew him something for tonight."

"And I also said it would help. I didn't say with what. Here, take those to my room. I'll be right up—just need a couple more ingredients." The little brass key hovered in her hand as she contemplated putting it on the various parcels, none of which seemed stable enough, before settling on slipping it into the pocket of Agronak's cloak. She held the door open for him to enter the hallway of the inn before heading into the tavern. He went up the stairs to the private rooms, wiping his feet on the rough hall carpeting while maintaining a grip on the various packages.

It wasn't until he reached her door that he realized the key wasn't in his hands, and his hands were not available for anything other than holding the assortment of delicate items. With a frown, and intense concentration, he managed a weak telekinesis spell, his fingers tapping against the parcels as he cast it.

It took several tries, but he finally managed to extricate the key from his pocket and float it over to the keyhole. Bouncing it off the doorknob, the door jamb, and the door itself, he tried to angle it properly so it would fit into the lock...

"That's one way to do it," Cerisse interrupted, grabbing the upside down key he was currently sliding up the wall in an attempt to flip it over, "but this is a bit simpler." With a murmured spell and a tap of her hands on the lock the tumblers clicked into place. To his surprise he felt nothing at all from that magical demonstration.

"Regular alteration spell," she explained, noting his questioning look as he passed by to place the parcels on the bed. "There aren't many locks in a forest."

"Witches must have doors on their houses."

"You're assuming they have houses," she said while sorting out the supplies. "Tell me, you fought in the Arena. What would you say courage feels like?"

"Tricky question." Casting his mind back, he thought about his more difficult matches, of the undefeated opponents he faced, of the knowledge that every time he stepped onto the sand he'd be fighting a battle for his life. "It's a powerful feeling, understanding the odds against success, but choosing to risk them anyway..."

"No," she interjected while unwrapping a package. "Would you say it feels _hot_, or _cold_?" Each hand, holding a single vial, alternately waved with the question.

"Warm, I guess..."

"Good." Her collection of ingredients was placed on the small writing desk set against the window. Cerisse waved him over, and he surveyed her supplies. Some brown powder in a bowl, and a bottle of what looked like flin, had been brought up from the tavern. "Do you think it tingles? Or numbs?"

"Definitely tingles."

At his answer she uncapped a small jar, and put a pinch of what looked like red threads into a mortar. After adding a small quantity of the flin—nothing else burnt the nostrils in quite the same way—she passed it to Agronak with instructions to keep crushing until the clear liquid had a bright red tint. Meanwhile, she sprinkled a light dusting of the brown powder into a flask of water, stoppered it, and began to shake it.

"What sort of potion is this?"

"It isn't a potion. We're making liquid courage."

"You're going to get him drunk? I can't see that impressing her much. She'll never want to spend the Day of Waiting locked up with a drunk."

Cerisse scrutinized him, and he tried to appear nonchalant while working the pestle. "You heard it all, didn't you?"

"I've got good ears, and the walls had holes."

"Hmm. That's useful to know." She set the flask down, and she placed a funnel into a small amber bottle etched with runes. "I'll take that." He handed over the mortar, the liquid pooled in the bottom of the marble basin now a vibrant red. "Mr. Coppersly is too shy to talk to her, but there isn't a potion for confidence, thankfully. Can you imagine what trouble people would get into if they sold that?"

"Probably the same thing as people who've had too much flin," Agronak joked. He was rewarded with a chuckle.

"Probably. So we need to convince him he's drinking a potion of courage, and hopefully he'll find the courage to pay her a visit. We've got rain water as the base, and a little Khajiiti spice for heat," the contents of the flask were poured into the bottle, "flin for tingle, firepetal stamens for colour..."

Getting Agronak to hold the strainer, she carefully tipped the liquid out from the mortar. The mock potion in the bottle took on a dark red hue, tinted by the amber of the glass.

"A little persil for fresh breath," a few drops from the small vial of thick green oil were added to the mixture, "and some gold flakes for strength, power, and overall presentation. Put it all in the right packaging, and we've bottled liquid courage."

Agronak laughed, amazed at her audacity. She had that arch of her eyebrow and a smug smile on her face, clearly pleased with her plan.

"Mages certainly don't make potions like this, and I'm sure witches don't either."

"No," she answered, pouring out a small amount of flin into an empty water glass, "but we do."

A tink of their glasses and an unspoken toast later, he was enjoying the acrid tingle of flin as the oily liquid burned a path down his throat. Why did he always forget he couldn't stand the stuff?

At least judging by Cerisse's red cheeks and hacking cough, he wasn't the only one in the room asking that exact question...

* * *

The description of grub ooze did nothing to settle his stomach, and Agronak set down _The Tales of Kieran_ to bounce around on the seat. It had been nice of Cerisse to lend him a book to while away the distance to the inn, but he hadn't known the rocking motion of the carriage, combined with the dark blur of the forest passing by the windowpanes, would make reading such a nauseating experience.

Watching as she mouthed the words of her book—still reading that Ta'agra romance novel—furrow in her brow as she worked to decipher the passages, he reflected on what he'd come to learn of her.

Not much, and yet a fair bit. She was certainly one of those people who adopted masks, being different things to different people. From what he'd seen of Breton nobility he didn't doubt it a necessary skill to have. And she was discreet, rarely volunteering any information about herself or their surroundings unless asked. Though she struck him as being more cautious than sneaky.

Especially since the glimpses he'd caught of what he suspected to be her true personality, the woman hiding behind the formality, was that of someone kind, gentle, with a bright sense of humour. If only he knew how to draw it out more often. Today she'd been serious and quiet again, spending her time with her books, letting the attempts at conversation lapse slowly back into silence.

"Finished already?" she asked, nodding towards the thin red book trying to rattle its way off the edge of the seat.

"Reading while traveling doesn't agree with me," he explained with a pat to his stomach.

"I've got something for that. Let's see, which pocket did I put it in..." She mumbled to herself while rummaging around in her large leather satchel, the only piece of luggage she kept in the carriage, rather than having it strapped to the outside.

Dusting the chunk of root off with a puff of breath, she inspected it with a twirl of her fingers. Occupied with watching the spinning chunk of shriveled brown tuber, he didn't notice her pull out a very small blade from the recesses of her clothes. It wasn't until she began peeling off the bark with careful slices of the knife did he ask where she'd kept it.

"Secret pocket in my cloak. You've got a couple in yours."

As she continued to peel the root bulb, he started inspecting his new apparel. By the time she'd finished with her task he'd managed to locate one of them, the opening almost undetectable along the seam of the lining.

"Chew on this, but don't swallow it," she instructed as she passed him the unappetizing looking mass of beige fibers, the outer husk removed.

"Why, will it poison me?"

"No, it isn't digestible. Wouldn't be very useful for a stomach remedy to cause a stomach ache."

It tasted far better than it looked, a slight sweetness being released with every bite. "Which town are we stopping in tonight?"

"It's not a town, just an inn on the road. It's halfway to Hawkton Court—we should be there in time for dinner tomorrow."

"Your family doesn't mind having me stay with them until...later?" Hopefully whatever Synderius was up to wouldn't take too long. It was almost time for First Planting celebrations, and he was growing concerned he'd miss the busiest time of the year for his village.

"They'll be fine with it. Visitors are always welcome," she answered, putting her hand up to touch the roof, centering it in the middle of the circles her light spell had been tracing on the black leather.

"Will be? Didn't you tell them I was coming?"

She wasn't looking at him, instead watching the glowing ball of light as it wound itself down her arm in a lazy spiral. Finally tearing her eyes from the unusually behaving magic she looked at Agronak. "Do you speak Orcish?"

"Somewhat." His mother had been fluent in Common, usually only resorting to Orcish when she'd been particularly angry with him. He understood it better than he could speak it, though his vocabulary tended towards the more colourful words and phrases.

"My family is a bit different. They're lovely people," she quickly added, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about that. But it's probably better you're not expected. My father in particular is a bit...odd."

"Really?" Considering the fact the woman sitting across from him currently had a ball of light rolling over her shoulders, he wasn't surprised by the revelation.

"He's a linguist. Very passionate about languages, actually," she elaborated. "You don't happen to speak anything else besides Common, do you?"

"No."

"Ah, well, I'll try and talk to him before he starts practicing his Orcish on you."

"I wouldn't mind if he did. I'm rather rusty." There hadn't been much opportunity to speak it in the Arena, and he was fairly sure nobody in Crowhaven knew any Orcish.

"I can help you with that," Cerisse said with a smile, suddenly switching to unaccented Orcish. "He practices on me when there isn't anyone else to work with."

"What other..." The words were thick and clunky, causing him to realize he hadn't spoken anything more than some favoured Orcish curses in the past couple of years.

"Languages?" she offered, supplying the word he'd been searching for.

"What other languages do you know?" It was strange to suddenly be speaking in a different tongue—he thought in Common, and translating it in his mind woke up forgotten memories.

"Fluent Aldmeris, passable Dunmeris, basic Ta'agra, and a smattering of the rest. I get the most use from Orcish, especially when I have an ... with King Gortwog."

Repeating the unknown word back to her, she translated it into Common—_audience_.

As the carriage bounced along the road, they continued conversing in Orcish, Cerisse attempting to explain her family's connections to Orsinium. From what he understood, occasionally needing to ask for clarification of a word or phrase, some of her family's Menevian holdings had become a part of Orsinium at its creation. But rather than abandon the land to the Orcs, the Orsinium Hawktons had stayed, one of the few families to live under both Gortwog's dominion and Eadwyre's rule, with properties in both locations. Her father had been born an Orsinium Hawkton, though after his marriage to her mother he'd lived in Menevia, so Cerisse was considered a Menevian Hawkton.

"Does that matter?" he asked, confused by the distinction.

"To the nobility, yes. To the Hawktons, no."

The halting of the carriage in front of a large rectangular wooden building, bright torches burning beside the front doors, stopped the conversation. A detailed sign above the entrance, decorated to match the name, proclaimed it to be the Rat and Barbarian Inn. Bretons really had to have the most imaginatively named taverns in Tamriel.

Following her into the inn, first taking the opportunity to discreetly spit out the well chewed mass of root fibers into the bushes, he listened in as she arranged lodging for the evening. Watching the scratching of the innkeeper's quill over the guest book, carefully recording Cerisse's thorough introduction of him, he noticed the man had spelled his name wrong, probably due to her improper pronunciation.

"It's Agronak," he corrected.

"That's what I've written," the confused man replied, giving him a skeptical look.

"No, you've spelled it with a Y."

"Oh, sorry." A quick dot of the quill changed the name from 'Agrynak' to 'Agrinak.'

"No, it's got an O," he clarified.

"Terribly sorry, sir. That's an unusual spelling." Small circles of ink turned the name listed from 'Agrinak' to 'Agrinok.'

"No, you don't understand. It's A-G-R-O-N-A-K."

"Really? Are you quite sure?" The man paused, quill hovering about the parchment.

"Yes, I'm quite sure I know how to spell my own name." The answer was punctuated with his finger tapping the guest book. "Agronak."

"Of course, sir." A slight roll of the eyes indicated the innkeeper didn't believe him, but he crossed out the incorrect name and wrote it in properly.

Following Cerisse along the wide hallway, grumbling about the man's obstinacy, he was surprised when she asked him if he was certain that was how his first name was spelled. "Do you really think I don't know my own name?"

"No," she replied gently, working her key into the lock. "It's just Agrynak, with a Y, is a very common name around the Bay. I've never heard of a variation with an O. I'm afraid I've been saying it wrong this whole time."

"Oh." He suddenly understood why he'd never met a Breton yet who'd called him by the right name—they'd probably all thought he'd been the one with the strange accent. "Don't worry about it."

"Good," she pushed the door open and gave Agronak a small wink before she stepped inside, "because I wasn't going to."


	10. On the Usage of Country Estates

Something didn't add up.

Wiping the dust from an old chest with a rag, pilfered from the maid's supplies, Theodyrick frowned darkly. If he looked at it from one angle everything fell into place, but from the other side it was a mess, a tangle of threads looping back in on themselves. Elysana may be crafty, but she wasn't disorganized.

Sitting down gingerly on the lacquered wood, he tried to blow away a cobweb stuck to the angled ceiling. Every other room in his home brought on an instant headache, garish colours and ridiculous price tags refusing to let his mind calm itself. And so because he needed to think so desperately, he'd secreted himself away in the attic.

Even the servants didn't know where he was, thinking he'd gone out. Earlier, he'd heard his cousin being politely turned away. Talking to Edwistyr brought nothing but the young man's insistence they'd chosen the wrong lord. It was odd—Edwistyr refused to yield on the possibility they might be right, and his source wrong. It wasn't like the man to be so stubborn, leading Theodyrick to wonder if someone had gotten to his cousin. It wouldn't be the first time family had been turned against itself. After all, he'd betrayed his own more times than he could remember.

If Edwistyr was right, then his continued work maintaining a flow of information from the dockyards and the guards was the right course of action. Though the grumbling of the young man, and his perpetual complaints about having to pay so many out of his own pocket, garnered no sympathy from Theodyrick. They all had to make sacrifices at times, especially for a worthy cause.

But if Edwistyr was wrong, and the agent was wandering unwatched in the wilds of Menevia, then all could be lost. Or not. There wasn't anything in Menevia, a backwater territory housing the most unmotivated of noble families.

Like the Hawktons. Their eccentricities were well known. He doubted there could be a less politically minded family found in the entire Bay. They stayed away from court, occasionally sending a token son or daughter to make an appearance, they rarely traveled, and they entertained _scholars _while declining invitations to dinners and balls. The only thing they did seem to be good at was breeding.

He'd finally remembered which one Cerisse Hawkton was—the dull one. Quiet, unassuming, the type who rarely laughed at jokes or told amusing stories. Elysana always relegated her to the far end of the dinner table—a place any decent noble dreaded. The ridiculous girl didn't seem bright enough to understand the snub. It was little wonder she would be the type to hire an Orc, of all things, to escort her home.

Assuming he really was traveling with her back to Menevia. But if he wasn't headed to Menevia at all, instead using that trail as a blind...

The ideas skittered off the edge of reasoning again, refusing to be followed to a logical conclusion. Some portion of the puzzle was missing, or something had been added that didn't belong.

With a shake of the head he looked around the cramped confines of the room. A nearby birdcage on a stand, rusted with years of neglect, was fringed with a layer of spiderwebs, so old and coated with dust they had the appearance of ancient muslin curtains, moth eaten and fragile with age. He couldn't ever remember having a bird.

The old junk up here was a mystery. He idly wondered about the possibilities each trunk held, but he knew no matter how hard he thought about the contents, he wouldn't know for sure unless he opened each one and saw for himself...

Slapping his hand on the chest, he finally realized what he had to do.

Right after he got the blue lacquered splinter out of his palm.

* * *

"Let's see...Rodyrick, Gwynyssa with two Y's, uh, Alabyval..."

"That's my father."

"Right. Um, Gondal..."

"Gondyn," Cerisse corrected with a small sigh. "I know, it's a lot to absorb. I'll take you through them again."

As she once more listed the members of her family—including all seven of her siblings—discussing which ones were at home and which in other cities, which were married and which were single, Agronak found it difficult to keep the names straight.

But he'd insisted she try to give him some background about the family he was going to be spending an undetermined amount of time with. His inquiries about Synderius had been answered with a very terse _don't know, and it's best that way_.

By the time she began packing her things into her bag, her attention wandering out the window, he'd managed to commit to memory the fact her father was Alabyval, her mother Evelolda (though everyone called her Evie), her youngest brother was Gondyn, and the entire family had far too many Y's than he'd thought possible in their names.

Watching the forest pass by, tiny green buds on the branches visible in the late afternoon sun, he pondered how it was he'd come to be hiding on the coast of Menevia with the large family of a _friend of the coven_, safe from the machinations of a mysterious _them_. Did this qualify as an adventure? The only altercation he'd been in so far was an attack from behind. Not exactly glamorous.

He still hadn't fought so much as a rabid rat.

She was pointing out landmarks now—the occasional farm, including the names of the inhabitants; the trickles of water under the wooden bridges, barely large enough to be termed streams; her family's orchard, including a recitation of the five varieties of pear trees growing there; and finally the house itself.

It wasn't what he'd expected. Instead of a stately old manor, wings and stories added on as fortunes allowed, or family size required, it was of newer construction, built within the past couple of decades. Clad in white painted wooden boards, the blue shutters framing the plethora of windows and the diminutive leaves of the climbing vines, waking up after the long sleep of winter, added cheerful colour to the large home.

"Back already?" A Nord with white braided hair, an eye patch, and an air that reminded Agronak of the one-armed captain and her crew, waved to Cerisse from his chair on the porch. "And you've brought a friend."

"Yes, Hjoldir. Would you mind helping with the luggage?"

"Only for you, lass, only for you," he mumbled in a gruff voice. Despite the slight stoop to his posture, he moved easily as he went to assist the carriage driver. Though the driver was currently occupied with the filling and lighting of his pipe, rather than any heavy lifting.

"One of my father's old colleagues He's worked for us since he retired from the company," Cerisse explained in a whisper. "Insists on earning his keep, as he calls it."

Glancing back to see the Nord working hard at filling his own pipe while chatting with the driver, Agronak followed Cerisse into the entrance hall.

Where the outside of the house suggested a refined elegance, the inside brought to mind the concept of organized chaos. While it was tidy, and clean, the place was filled with items. Built-in shelves lined the hallway on the upper level, and there were even bookshelves dotting the walls in the main entrance. Books fought with vases and sculptures for surface space on tables, and wherever a wall managed to show through between furniture it was decorated with paintings, drawings, or tapestries. A quick glance into the open doors of the adjoining rooms revealed a similar decorating style.

"We often joke that each year my father's books reproduce more than the entire imp population of Wayrest," she said by way of explanation, a note of amusement in her voice.

"Hjoldir, is that you? Have you seen my..." The blond woman, hair streaked with silver, paused at the top of the stairs. Breaking into a delighted grin, she quickly walked down the staircase. "Reesy! We weren't expecting you back so soon. And who is this you've brought to visit?"

"Lady Hawkton, allow me to introduce Lord Lovidicus, Agronak gro-Malog," Cerisse stressed the O in his first name, as she had been ever since last night.

"Such formality. Strictly unnecessary in this house. Call me Evie—everyone does," Lady Hawkton commanded while greeting Agronak. "What brings you to our little corner of the Bay?"

"He's visiting from Cyrodiil, and has been kind enough to travel with me," Cerisse explained.

"Oh, that's nice," Evie smirked, giving her daughter a meaningful look. For a moment he thought he saw Cerisse flush a little. "You're more than welcome here, Agrinak. May I call you Agrinak?"

He barely had a chance to nod before she'd grabbed his arm and continued speaking. "We'll get your luggage sent up to the guest room. Reesy, why don't you go freshen up and look after his things? I'll give Agrinak a tour of the house."

"That's not necessary, Mama." Cerisse's protests were brushed off as Evie led Agronak away.

"Nonsense, child, you must be tired. You look a bit peaked. Now run along," Evie instructed, and he definitely saw some sort of unspoken message pass from mother to daughter.

Cerisse muttered softly in Orcish before stalking out the front door.

"Oh, you speak Orcish! Alabyval will be delighted. I never did have a head for languages," she said brightly, giving Agronak a friendly smile. "Now let me show you where the kitchen is. Tell me, where is it you are a lord of?"

As she led him down the hallway, gently questioning him the entire time, he wondered if he'd actually heard Cerisse correctly, because it had sounded as though she'd told him _don't fear, I'll save you_.

* * *

By the time Cerisse reappeared, he knew he'd heard her right. Evie, while a very friendly and charming woman, had managed to grill him about his family, his village, his career, and his favourite hobbies while somehow maintaining a steady banter about her home and the unique artwork that filled it. And they'd only toured the main floor.

Promising her mother she'd be sure to complete the tour, Cerisse finally managed to extract Agronak from her clutches. As soon as they were out of earshot she apologized for leaving him alone so long.

"Don't. Your mother is very nice. The most welcoming person I've met since the boat docked." It was a pleasurable change from the veiled hostility, and occasionally the open hostility, he'd first encountered.

"Yes, she's very sweet, but she gets the strangest ideas. Come, I'll show you where you'll be staying."

Following her up the staircase, he noticed she'd changed into an embroidered velvet gown, much nicer than the simple linen traveling dress she'd been wearing. "Are we to dress for dinner?"

"What? Oh," glancing down at her clothes she shook her head, "no, this was to satisfy Mama. Please don't ask."

Trying not to chuckle as he opened the door, he paused to survey his new quarters. The low bookshelves were filled, thin books slotted sideways on top of others to squeeze into the alloted space, but the surfaces were relatively free of clutter, apart from the occasional vase. The bed appeared long enough to sleep him comfortably, and there was a simple white plaster mantle surrounding the fireplace, dry wood and kindling available for his use should he wish.

The only complaint he might have made, but had the good grace not to, was that the room had a _theme_. Roses were everywhere—embroidered on the linens, printed on the upholstery, the subject of the remarkable number of paintings on the walls. The vases themselves had glazed roses upon them, and a single rose placed in each one. At least they smelt nice.

"Another one of Mama's fancies. My parents tend to go through phases, though _obsessions_ might be a better term. This was decorated during her rose period." Cerisse pointed at the paintings, and he understood as with much of the artwork in the home, Evie was the artist. She certainly was talented—too bad the cumulative effect was so overwhelming. "Did you want to rest before dinner? It will be at least another hour, and you..."

"No," he interrupted, "I've been resting in the carriage all day. Is there a trail nearby?"

"Come," she beckoned, heading out into the hallway, "I'll show you the grounds."

Moving with a very stealthy tread, making sure to glance around corners, she led him out the front door without interference. It was a much nicer temperature here than the mountains, apparently a result of the warm breezes skimming across the Iliac Bay, and as she guided him around the grounds he could see spring had already arrived on the coast of Menevia.

Occupying herself with pointing out the various plants already growing, including a few late winter flowers, tinted in faint hues of pink, yellow, and blue, she gave him both the Common and Orcish names. The grounds were large, laid out in a methodical pattern, and they'd already passed through the extensive kitchen garden. The size made sense for such a large family, though he didn't recognize half of the things she'd mentioned would be planted. They sounded more like herbs than vegetables.

To his amusement she'd occasionally lean down and rub a leaf in her fingertips, before bringing her hand up to her nose and studying the scent. Durus hadn't mentioned that trick of testing the crops.

"Does this smell green enough to you?" she inquired, pressing her fingertips up to his face. Rounding a corner of the hedge, holding onto her warm hand and trying to understand just what she meant by _green_, and how he could possibly judge if it was _enough_, he never saw the projectile until it was too late.

Crimson blossomed on his shirt, a direct hit above the heart. Staring down in astonishment, he heard Cerisse yelling the strangest battle cry as she scanned the horizon. "Ri Ri!" Her tone was indignant. "Ri Ri, if you don't get out here right now and apologize, I'll turn your hair green!"

"Reesy, what's your problem? It's just Dyn," a young woman's voice called out. "He started it, just like...oh."

Tracing the source of the sound, he caught sight of wide blue eyes and a shocked mouth, forming a perfect O, from behind a large bush. Judging by the similarity in noses, and the presence of the same dark brown hair, he guessed he'd just met one of the junior Lady Hawktons. The youngest daughter, by the look of her.

"Good aim," Agronak complimented, trying to lighten the mood. He could feel the annoyance rolling off Cerisse as she glared at her sister, who walked sheepishly towards them. Picking off a jagged piece from his shirt, white on one side, blue on the other, he tried to figure out what she'd hit him with. At least it wasn't metal, and it probably wasn't poison. Though he was getting the idea it would leave a nasty stain.

"I'm terribly sorry," she apologized as she joined them, "I thought you were someone else. You're...you're the Grey Prince, aren't you?"

As he nodded, still picking pieces of _something_ off his clothes, he noticed her eyes somehow widened even more.

"Here, let me do that," she offered, red stained fingertips flying up to pluck at his shirt. "Oh, it's such an honour to meet you. I'm Ria."

"Thank you, Ria. But you don't need to help me with...what is this?" It had been a while, but he recognized the awe in her voice and the reverence in her posture. There had always been people who found his fame entrancing, and he was worried Cerisse's baby sister was one of them.

"Grouse eggs," Ria explained, pulling one from a pouch tied to her belt.

"They make holes in both ends, blow out the egg, fill it with dye, and seal the ends with wax," Cerisse clarified, tugging on Ria's arm. Snatching a long reed from her sister's grasp, she waved it at Agronak. "Fits perfectly in a makeshift blowpipe."

"Reesy," Ria hissed under her breath, trying to shake off the clutching hand.

"Ria, come," Cerisse commanded, pulling her sister along the walkway.

"It was nice to meet you!" Ria waved at him, walking backwards. "Sorry about the shirt!"

Brushing off the remaining bits of clinging eggshell, he listened with growing amusement to the harshly whispered conversation between the sisters.

"...off limits."

"But Reesy, he's the Grey Prince! He's so famous..."

"No! For the love of the Goddesses, leave him in peace!"

"_Ooh_, I see what's going on. You like him, don't you?"

"Riraynea, you're twenty. Grow up."

"It's _Ria_."

"It's _Cerisse_. Now get in the house before Mama finds out you shot her guest."

A very feminine grunt of exasperation came from behind the hedges, and he guessed Cerisse had made her point. Hopefully Ria took it to heart.

"There isn't much hope that will wash out. I should know," Cerisse said when she joined him again, offering her handkerchief for him to wipe off his hands.

Deciding not to ruin any more objects, he settled for rubbing his fingers on his already stained shirt. "She seems nice."

"Ria's certainly special." The answer was carefully non-committal, and she didn't sound as though she was entirely pleased with her sibling at the moment.

Walking back with her towards the house, he couldn't resist asking. "Reesy?"

"Don't," she warned. "There's more of them than there are of me, so I tolerate it. But that's because they're family."

"No, it's because you secretly love it." A young man, lounging on a stone bench by an empty fountain, called out. Springing up he walked over, holding his empty hands palms out. "Look, I'm unarmed."

"Gondyn." Her tone was the same as the one she'd taken with Ria, a hint of warning and disapproval underneath. "This is..."

"Agrinak gro-Malog, the Grey Prince, Lord Lovidicus of Crowhaven, the man who currently has Mama in a tizzy as she debates whether or not he prefers chocolate to collequiva. I see you've already met Ria." A long thin finger, much like his sister's, pointed at the stained shirt.

"Thanks to you, from what I've heard," Cerisse said coldly, looking up at her brother. Though the young man was over a head taller than her, he held the most family resemblance Agronak had seen so far. They both had the same spattering of freckles, and almost merish body types. He'd call it willowy, were it not for the fact that description normally didn't apply to someone as short as Cerisse.

"Reesy, dearest, you haven't the slightest shred of evidence of my guilt. Besides, if I recall, _you_ were the champion egg dart master five years running..."

"Why can't anyone in this family behave in a civilized fashion?" she asked with a grin. Seeing her expression Gondyn backed up, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid the fingers she stuck in his sides, eliciting a loud laugh as she tickled him.

"Too slow, Reesy," he teased as he spun out of reach. "Besides, you're not behaving appropriately in front of your new sweetheart." Gondyn snuck Agronak a conspiratorial wink, and he understood the man was only teasing his sister.

"Dyn." There was a dark note of warning to her voice.

"You have to maintain your composure, your womanly mystery," Gondyn lectured while dancing around her. "You certainly couldn't accept my challenge of a race to the terrace, winner gets a week without chores."

She crossed her arms, unimpressed with his antics. Meanwhile Agronak stood on the spot, enjoying the show. This was more entertaining than most of the matches he'd watched in the Arena. Perhaps he could convince the Hawktons to make a special appearance in the Imperial City. Though Owyn would probably not be amused.

"Two weeks, and I won't even ask for a head start. I mean, you're probably wearing those ridiculous girly shoes with the buckles and the wobbly heels." Gondyn waved his hands, laughing as he demonstrated the wobblies.

His laughter died when she folded up the front of her long skirt, tucking the hem into the low belt around her waist, revealing her bare calves and just as bare feet.

"Deal," she nodded with a grin.

"Not fair!" Gondyn shouted, sprinting in the direction of the house.

"Come on," she waved at Agronak, while running after her brother.

Rather amused, and glad to get the exercise after days spent in a cramped carriage, he raced after them. The slick ground, beset with damp grasses and loose gravel, slowed him as he worked to maintain his footing. The same troubles appeared to be plaguing Gondyn, the man losing speed whenever he came to a corner.

Cerisse suffered from no such problems, and by the time they reached the back of the house she was waiting for them, breathing heavily, flushed from the race.

"Two weeks, Dyn. I've even got a witness," she huffed.

"Not. Fair." The words came out in gulps.

"Reesy, darling, are you out here?" The now familiar voice of Evie called out as the back door opened. As one synchronized team, Gondyn stepped in front of Agronak, and Cerisse tugged her skirt down. Both stifled their breathing, and Agronak tried to do the same.

"There you are. I need you for a moment in the kitchen," Evie's friendly smile fell a little as she surveyed the group with suspicious eyes. It was a gaze all mothers knew how to give, and even though it was irrational Agronak couldn't help feeling a tiny pang of worry when she glanced at him.

"Go ahead, Reesy. I'll look after our guest," Gondyn offered, speaking in a remarkably normal voice.

"Thank you." As she walked towards the door, Cerisse turned back and stuck her tongue briefly out at her brother.

"Now, dear, take your shoes off and follow me. You were wearing shoes, weren't you? Oh, Reesy, how many times..." Evie's lecture was cut off as the door closed behind her. After waiting a few seconds, Gondyn finally stepped away and gulped in a deep breath, slumping down on the steps. Taking that as the signal to relax Agronak began walking around the terrace, trying to prevent his leg muscles from becoming stiff.

"If Mama had seen your shirt she wouldn't stop until she'd lectured every one of us, and maybe you for good measure," Gondyn muttered from his seat on the stone stairs. "Hawkton women. Insane, every last one of them. You're hanging around the craziest of the lot."

"That thought had occurred to me," Agronak quipped.

The man laughed. "You're alright. There might be hope for you yet." Getting to his feet with a groan, he started walking towards the side of the house. "They've put you in the rose room?"

"Yes."

Walking backwards, Gondyn appeared to be analyzing Agronak, mentally calculating some equation. "It's a good thing Mama takes things so far when she has her little fancies. It isn't safe for you to go through either entrance looking like that. Tell me, do you think you can scale this?"

Staring at the wooden trellis against the wall, climbing roses safely pruned back, Agronak decided it looked sturdy enough to make the attempt. Giving it a quick shake, certain it was structurally sound, he began carefully pulling himself up it.

Somehow the prospect of falling seemed more appealing than setting Evie off on a round of lectures for the evening. Perhaps Gondyn was on to something with his comments about Hawkton women...


	11. Dinner Rituals Amongst Polite Company

Coral satin. Red velvet. Now grey silk took its place in the wardrobe, put away for the season, unlikely to be worn again for months.

Pity. The colour was quite flattering. A trend had sprung up among her courtiers, the ladies tripping over themselves in a rush to emulate their Queen, grey appearing on them from their shoes to their stoles. The joke was Wayrest had more tailors than bakers, but was that really so terrible? Better to have a fashionable city than a boring one.

The dull clouds, hanging so low it appeared their underbellies would catch on the city walls, brought no smile to her face. Clouds meant nothing, were nothing. It was the fog, that wonderful masking cloak of secrecy, she truly loved. Only in the suspended dampness did she feel alive, imagination and energy stoked to their peak. Except the wind had shifted, pulling up the warm breezes of Hammerfell, stinking of sun and baked sand, her beloved fog finally lifted. The loss of the grey veil was the signal for the retiring of her grey silk, which she'd worn in hopes the weather would hold for as long as possible.

Tugging off her earrings, ignoring the brilliant sparkle of emerald light in the glow of the candles, Elysana wondered how much longer it would take before the news was announced. Perhaps a week, hopefully not more than two. It would be a relief to get this situation finally resolved. Especially before Edwyn got a chance to ruin it.

That useless, irritating man. She'd held such hopes for him for their future together. Mature, connected, established, absolutely ruthless—he'd possessed so many attractive qualities. There weren't many men who'd indulge her in her plot to assassinate a troublesome Blade. Most tended to balk at risking the wrath of an Empire. But what was a little risk when there was a kingdom to gain?

Except she'd never counted on Edwyn being so bloody stupid. Signing his own name on the assassin's instructions—Arkay's grace, what had he been thinking? The amount of trouble he'd caused her from one little signature...

So much trouble, in the form of a large, cunning, dastardly Orc. Looking back, it was all too easy to see how quickly Gortwog had offered his aid, lending the weighty threat of his warriors to her claim on the throne. Barenziah and her brat had crumpled in the face of such foes. As informed as their spies were, they hadn't been prepared to combat Orsinium with their preferred weapons of misinformation and blackmail.

Which was laughably ironic, considering how frequently the Orc employed them to his own ends. Before she'd even gotten a chance to double cross him, or attempt to re-negotiate his reward, he'd sent her a private little note of congratulations, hand-delivered by his most trusted courier. Oh, how her stomach had knotted to read it. Just one line, one innocent, damning line. She knew those instructions, reportedly destroyed along with the Blade, hadn't been harmed at all. Edwyn's stupid little mistake had cost her dearly, too dearly. Her trust in him had died that day, but not before it had taken out a small piece of her heart. It was foolishness, a weakness she wouldn't repeat, but she'd actually trusted the man, grateful to finally have someone, just _one_ person, in her life she'd felt she didn't have to safeguard against.

And look what it had cost her. The mineral rich highlands of Menevia, the confidence of some of her nobility, not to mention her independence from Gortwog's interference. Gods, she'd have been better off marrying that beast of an Orc. Between them they'd probably be ruling from Daggerfall to the Dragontails by now.

Except she'd chosen Edwyn, dear, foolish, contemptible Edwyn. Unable to trust him, certain there were other horrid little surprises waiting to bite her ankles, she'd sent her most skilled _assistant_ to search the secret dungeons beneath his county estate. Waiting with a congratulatory glass of wine, she'd graciously accepted the diary while toasting to his success. Listening to him wheeze as the poison did it's job had been bitter, losing her best agent because Edwyn couldn't keep quill from parchment.

The contents though—Nine have mercy, there were no words. Even after all these years it still brought a clammy chill to her skin, making her thoughts swirl until she felt she'd faint. Murdering King Lysandus of Daggerfall as one step further in his path to the throne—_her_ throne— then _writing _about it? If Gortwog, if _anyone_, got their hands on that information, it would all be over. Nobody would believe she hadn't known anything about it until well after the deed was done.

But it was the words he hadn't written that chilled her blood and steeled her resolve. Reading between the lines, she'd come to only one conclusion—he didn't want her, he wanted her crown. In that instant she'd made up her mind no matter what happened, he'd never get it from her. It hadn't been easy, but she'd finally managed a way to safely hide the damning evidence while still leaving a trail to find it in case of her untimely death.

She fiddled with the clasp of her necklace, fingers stiff with the annoyance of early arthritis, unfortunate legacy of the Wayrest throne. It didn't hurt to wear her red diamonds anymore, the emotional distress she'd felt when her worst suspicions had come true, the dreadful night Edwyn had snapped at being forever the Royal Consort, had faded to nothing more than numb memories. He'd murdered any affection she'd had for him with that one look, his glare filled with nothing but hatred and contempt, the unspoken dismissal of her worth.

Damn it, she was worthy. Worthy of her crown, her throne, her city. Even thinking about it brought a heat to her cheeks. For years she'd fought to prove it to her father, her nobles, her people. They'd all been so quick to dismiss the soft-faced girl, whispering of her gullibility and her hysterical tendancies. Had mourning her mother been too emotional? Bickering with that bitch of a mer who swept in so soon after, bringing her brood and her foreign ways, been so irrational?

No, of course not. Even if she'd been more apt to put her feelings on display back then, that was a childish luxury she no longer indulged. Everything was planned now, carefully controlled and coordinated for the greatest safety to her, to her family. In a few years she could officially name her son as heir, bypassing Edwyn altogether. As far as he knew the child was his, that thought providing her son a large measure of safety, though she sincerely hoped it wasn't true. Gods knew she'd tried hard enough to make sure it wasn't.

But in the meantime, she still needed to do what she could to preserve the dignity of Wayrest's throne. This current demand of Gortwog's, bitterly galling and abhorrent as it was, offered her a prize too precious to resist. That old scrap of parchment with that simple signature—getting it back in exchange would finally give her back a huge piece of her freedom. Oh, she wouldn't be able to harm Gortwog, bound by the Emperor's labyrinth of clauses and codicils, but she would never again be under his control.

Gods, let it be over soon. Let it be done, let her finally undo that horrible mistake of Edwyn's, let her throne finally be safe.

And let it happen before Edwyn could do anything stupid enough to stop it.

* * *

There was one thing Daracy hated more than anything. Lateness.

It was bad enough having to sit here in this hole of a tavern, listening to the drunken ramblings of the off-duty guards as they placed bets on how many people would claim to see a dragon this year on the Day of Waiting. The constant repetitions of the most innuendo-filled song he'd ever heard, being taught to a woman who wouldn't stop giggling, certainly didn't help.

Why was it always a tavern he had to meet them in? Why couldn't it ever be a chapel, or a clothing store, or the theater? Why did it always have to be some Gods forsaken hole reeking of stale beer and staler bodies?

These bloody undercover agents, always turning up with an excuse about shadowy figures or dangerous missions. Already the mer was an hour late. If he, Daracy, wouldn't get into so much trouble for it he'd leave this place and head back to Morilliton. There he could sit on his balcony, watching the gentle breezes of the bay stir the fronds of the trees as the sun sank out of sight, the sky turning from lilac to violet before settling into the darkest blue. Tonight the stars would be visible overhead, while the lights of the houses on the lower sections of the city, closer to the bay, would dance underneath them. Spring on the coast of Lainlyn was glorious.

Instead he was stuck here, the reek of dragon's breath—that imported vice from the Summerset Isles, purple smoke issuing from the twisted glass pipes being shared by the patrons—settling into his clothes. And the only sight he'd considered remotely attractive had spent the evening sitting in a corner booth with a bard whose repertoire apparently consisted of only one bawdy tune.

Years of service, years spent running an assortment of operatives, years of learning, sifting, careful reporting, and what did it garner? The continual visits of irresponsible Blades, with their desire to appear important, and their lateness. None of his subordinates would ever dare make their Spymaster wait.

Deciding to step outside for a moment, he threaded his way through the cramped room, dodging wenches carrying loaded trays while snaking past the chairs of the patrons crowded around the filthy tables. It wasn't as if the mer would be hard to spot. Not many Dark Elves found their way to this tiny tavern on the northern coast of Hammerfell. They didn't appear often on the western shores of Tamriel in general.

Casting a glance towards the pretty Redguard as she let out yet another burst of giggles, he wryly noted the odd coincidence tonight not one, but two, Dark Elves would be present in the same tavern at the same time...

By the Rat God! Realizing his error, Daracy slowed his pace, yawning as he passed by the occupied pair. As soon as he saw the mer's hand go to his neck, giving it a quick rub, he knew he'd just spent the past few hours waiting for somebody who'd been in the same room, waiting for him.

Spending a respectable amount of time outside, leaning against the wall, making sure to appear nonchalant, he returned inside to find the mer alone, his lovely companion nowhere to be seen.

"Took you long enough." The Dark Elf grumbled, idly flipping a gold piece over the backs of his fingers. "I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."

"No such luck." The exact details of the mer's assignment weren't part of the message, but Daracy knew enough to understand something had gone wrong, and there were now others involved in the mess. The Grandmaster was not happy, the Emperor was not happy, and the Empress...

Words masked by the judicious application of magic, he relayed what he'd been told. The mer's face grew dark as he set the gold piece to spin on the table's surface, red eyes watching the reflections of the torch light off the glinting metal.

"So Orsinium is being monitored constantly, and anyone who doesn't belong will attract immediate suspicion. His network of spies is big enough for this?" the mer asked with a frown.

"It's almost as large as hers." Daracy shook his head. "He's always kept Gortwog under intense surveillance. In the Orc's court we know who they are, they know who we are, and any unknowns are immediately suspect. I can't see how we could introduce anyone new to the court without attracting the wrong kind of attention."

"What if..." The mer's dusky hand, more grey than blue, slapped the spinning coin flat onto the surface. "What if we sent someone they'd already suspected, but then cleared? Someone with a valid reason to go there?"

"What if the Alik'r was made out of diamonds instead of sand? How could we find someone, get them suspected, investigated, cleared, and then invited to Orsinium under legitimate circumstances? It's a nice idea, but there aren't any of us available who fit the requirements..."

"No, not one of us..."

"It's too dangerous." Daracy immediately protested. "The Grandmaster wouldn't want to involve a defenseless citizen in a mission of this magnitude."

The mer's mouth spread into a satisfied smirk as he leaned forward, tucking the gold piece into his coinpurse. "That's the beauty of it. Because the person I have in mind made a career out of staying alive..."

As the plan was discussed—being questioned, examined from all angles, meticulously pulled apart looking for weaknesses—Daracy came to agree with the mer's assessment. It was risky, certainly, but it was about the best chance they had. The only other option was waiting long enough to try the original plan again, but there was the distinct possibility they'd never get another opportunity as good as this for a long time to come.

And waiting that long wasn't an option. Satisfied they'd hit upon a solid strategy—as good as the circumstances allowed—he prepared to take his leave of the mer. Upon his return to his home in Morilliton he'd send a message to the Grandmaster. Once the plan was accepted or rejected, he'd find the mer again, at which point they'd either have to come up with a new one, or set the current one in motion.

"One last thing. You have a message from _her_." Daracy mentioned, not wanting to bring up the subject, but ordered to do so.

The mer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell her I'm working on it, and she'll get her blasted staff if I have to take up smithing and make it myself..."

"No, that's not it. It's a...non-verbal message." Surveying the curious Dark Elf, noting the mer's muscular physique while remembering the rumours he'd trained with the Champion of Cyrodiil, Daracy hesitated to continue. Experience was one thing, but the highly developed reflexes of a seasoned warrior were not to be taken lightly. "I'm just the messenger. Remember that."

The mer nodded for him to proceed. Daracy exhaled deeply before beginning the spell. There were many secrets he was privy to, and many he'd love to learn, but the exact reason the Empress of Tamriel had asked he do this to a fellow Blade was not one he wished to know. Sending the mild shock spell into the Dark Elf he instinctively recoiled, sure the mer would retaliate.

But the Dunmer didn't, instead muttering '_silly s'wit of a girl_' under his breath while apparently trying to hold in his laughter.

Perhaps taverns were ideal places for this after all— the bleary eyed customers around them hadn't seemed to notice a thing.

* * *

"Oh, how nice. You didn't need to dress," Evie twittered at him, noting his new shirt. "Now go on in. Dinner is almost ready."

Gently guided, and perhaps a bit shoved, Agronak found himself in the dining room. The room wasn't like the others, Evie having forbidden the entrance of books on pain of broken spines. As a result it was an oasis of clutter free space.

Her artistic talents stood on full display—a giant mural depicting a pastoral scene wrapped around the walls, extending as a serene sky on the ceiling. Agronak had admired it quite sincerely during the tour.

"Ah, finally. Good to meet you." The elderly Breton made his way forward, using his dark wooden walking stick to minimize his limp. Two dogs—one dark grey, built like a wolf, his muzzle framed with white, the other of a smaller stature, with sleek brown fur—followed along behind him.

"Lord Hawkton. I must thank you for the hospitality of your charming family." Agronak greeted. The offered hand had a firm grip. Apart from the softened midsection and limp, he could tell Cerisse's father had been a very fit man in his prime. Time, however, had taken its toll, white hair ringing his ruddy face and bright smile.

"You are most welcome. Call me Alabyval—Evie insists on first names. She's told me you speak Orcish." Alabyval's green eyes seemingly danced with delight. "I wish I'd known in advance. There's a copy of Deesh-Meeus' analysis of the poetry of Atulg gro-Burbug that begs discussion. Perhaps it's in the second library..."

"Tertiary immigrant," Cerisse added to the conversation, walking up to greet her father with a hug. His face fell at the remark.

"Regional dialect remnants?" A small glimmer of hope lay in the question.

"Situational specific vocabulary," she responded sadly, shaking her head. Alabyval looked despondent for a moment before rallying and he turning back to Agronak with a weak grin.

"Ah, well, perhaps another time. I take it you've met my son, Gondyn," the indicated man leaning against the wall, his back covering a picturesque lake, gave Agronak a conspiratorial wink, "and my youngest daughter, Riraynea..."

"Ria," she corrected loudly from her place at the table, speaking over her father. "It's Ria, Papa."

"Yes, of course. _Ria_," he murmured with good humour. Dropping his voice, he whispered to Agronak. "Women. It's always one fancy or another. Best to just let them have their little whims. Saves on headache remedies."

"Alabyval, what have I told you about dogs in the dining room while we have company?" Evie called from the doorway, hands on her hips, exasperation in her voice.

"Not to toss them food, I believe." The wink he gave Agronak was very reminiscent of the kind his son favored.

As Evie somehow managed to scold, sweet talk, and joke with her husband at the same time, Alabyval led the dogs out of the room, speaking to them in a language other than Common. Seizing the opportunity, Agronak asked Cerisse what her exchange with her father had meant.

"It saved you from Deesh-Meeus' analysis, the complete collected works of Atulg gro-Burbug, the reference materials that refutes Deesh-Meeus' claims, my father's opinion, and a whole shelf worth of supporting poetry, half of which probably wouldn't be in Orcish or Common," she whispered. "So then he'd have to give you the translations of those, but there are often debates about the authenticity of translated pieces..."

Trailing off, she arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling in, as she tried to suppress an amused smile. "I told you it was better he didn't expect you."

Moving away to take her seat at the table, Gondyn took the opportunity to speak to Agronak as he passed by. "Let me give you a tip. My father can go on a bit—if he asks for your opinion, just tell him: _var var var, rabi_."

"_Var var var, rabi_?"

"You got it." Giving him a pat on the arm and a careless wink, Gondyn headed off to take his seat. Meanwhile Ria waved Agronak over to the empty place beside her.

Dinner was a blend of formal and casual. Rather than being waited on, the cook simply brought the serving dishes to the table, while the family passed the food, serving themselves. Both fine silverware and simple glazed crockery sat upon a pale yellow linen tablecloth. While the atmosphere was relaxed, he doubted eating with the fingers would go over well.

"I understand you're doing a bit of sightseeing in High Rock," Alabyval said from his place beside Agronak, at the end of the table. "Were you planning to stop in Daggerfall?"

"He probably doesn't have time to do that," Cerisse answered, passing the bowl of broad beans to her brother. "It's just a short vacation."

Alabyval nodded at his daughter, then turned his attentions back to Agronak. "What set of circumstances led you here to Menevia? Do you have family in the area?"

Before Agronak got a chance to respond, Cerisse again spoke for him. "He was kind enough to accompany me on the overland route through the escarpment."

"Reesy, I thought you weren't going to travel that way anymore," Evie said disapprovingly from her end of the table.

"Mama, she took the _Grey Prince_ with her," Ria stated. "If anyone should worry, it should be the bandit king."

"Ri Ri, there isn't a bandit king." As Gondyn began to argue across the table with his sister about the existence of a bandit lord as well as his secret town of brigands somewhere in the Wrothgarian foothills, Alabyval tried once more to speak with his guest.

"How are you enjoying High Rock, Agrinak? It must be..."

"Agronak," Cerisse corrected.

"That's what I said. Agrinak." Alabyval gave her a strange look. Seeing as how he'd probably never get a chance to speak with Cerisse constantly interrupting, Agronak resigned himself to simply enjoying his meal.

"No, it's Agronak. A-G-R-O," Cerisse explained.

"Really?" Alabyval's face lit up. "That's remarkable. Tell me, was your mother a Breton?"

Caught with a mouthful of beans, it was a few moments before Agronak could answer. "No, she was an Orc."

"Then your father must have been."

"No, he was Imperial. Lord Lovidicus," Agronak elaborated.

"Right." Alabyval snapped his fingers at the answer. "But he spent time in High Rock?"

Hesitant to dampen the man's enthusiasm, Agronak shook his head. "No. I don't think he left Cyrodiil." Considering his father's unique nature, as well as the contents of the diary, he doubted the lord had been much for traveling

"Astounding!" Alabyval slapped the table, shaking the glasses. "See, Cerisse, this is a perfect example of cross consonant migration."

Agronak quickly lost the thread of the conversation as he listened to Alabyval excitedly discussing etymological theories at Cerisse—since she barely murmured a word back at him, it could hardly be said he was discussing them _with_ her.

"That's so romantic." The dreamy declaration beside him interrupted the consumption of the pork roast on his plate. "Your father defying convention, marrying an Orcish lady."

"She wasn't a lady," he corrected Ria's mistaken assumption. To his surprise her expression became the type he frequently noticed on women when they cooed over babies or kittens.

"Oh, how sweet! How brave! To marry outside of his race _and_ social class, love overcoming the odds..."

"They, uh, weren't married," he said quietly, expecting her to apologize for her unintended gaffe.

Instead she almost swooned in her seat. "Ah, star crossed lovers, fate conspiring to keep them apart! How terribly tragic. And incredibly _romantic_!"

"Don't mind Ri Ri," Gondyn offered from across the table. "Too many romance novels."

"It's _Ria_," she scolded. Lowering her voice, she turned to Agronak. "I was named after a celebrated heroine whose love couldn't be stopped, even by death."

"Can't say that I know the name..."

Before he could finish the sentence Ria began her tale. She told him about Ria Silmane, an apprentice of the evil Jagar Tharn. According to her, Ria and the Emperor were in love, but with Jagar's imprisonment of Uriel in another plane as part of his plan to assume the guise of Emperor, the sorceress devoted her life to finding a way to free Uriel. Jagar Tharn learned of her plan to reunite with Uriel and their small son, and so had her killed. But she fought on from beyond the grave, working with Queen Barenziah to defeat the traitorous Battlemage and return the true Emperor to Tamriel.

"Her son?" Agronak had listened politely to the story, trying to ignore Gondyn's sarcastic remarks from across the table, contributed as Ria had begun speaking in louder tones as she discussed undying love and eternal passion.

"The Emperor," she answered in a reverential tone. "I'm named after his mother."

"Ri Ri, you are not!" Gondyn interjected from across the table. "Your name is Riraynea, after a Second Era Dunmeri poetess!"

"Well, I should have been named after her!" Ria protested angrily at her brother, stabbing her fork at him for emphasis.

"Wait, is she a real person?" Agronak asked. Both siblings nodded while maintaining eye contact with each other—Ria glaring, Gondyn smirking. "Then how could she be his mother if she died before he was born?"

"What?" Ria asked in shock.

"Well, Martin was born after Uriel came back. So if Ria was already dead, then she couldn't possibly be his mother."

"Are you sure?" Hope was written on Ria's face.

"Very sure." Knowing Martin was a year younger than Lilia, Agronak was quite certain Ria Silmane couldn't possibly be the Emperor's mother. Though from the rumours he'd heard during his years in the Bloodworks, he didn't rule out the possibility Uriel and Ria had known each other _very_ well.

With a dejected murmur Ria turned her attentions away from Agronak back to her plate, to pick at her beans and sigh melodramatically.

Apart from the occasional murmur of '_var var var, rabi_' from Cerisse at her father, and the mournful noises from Ria, Agronak had an interesting conversation with Gondyn and Evie. By asking them about the province of Menevia he was rewarded with several stories of local folklore, history, and geography.

As dinner wound down Alabyval appeared to show no signs of stopping. Cerisse was now contributing to the main conversation, her father seemingly speaking more to himself than anyone specifically. Occasionally calling on one of his family members for agreement about his theories, they'd respond with a polite '_var var var, rabi_' before carrying on with their own discussion. From the atmosphere Agronak could tell this was a regular occurrence during Hawkton dinners, so there'd be no hard feelings from Alabyval at being politely ignored, or from his family at being subjected to a continuous stream of intellectual banter.

"...can see the roots of the syntax in both Aldmeris and Argonian. Wouldn't you agree, Agronak?"

Startled by the sudden inclusion of himself in Alabyval's monologue, he answered as Gondyn had advised. "_Var var var, rabi._"

The table burst into laughter, Gondyn's laugh the loudest of all. Even Evie chuckled, murmuring about Agronak's delightful wit. He felt as confused as Alabyval looked, the man blinking his eyes as if waking from a deep sleep.

"Oh dear, did I do it again?" Alabyval asked his wife. Seeing the nods of his family, he looked down at his plate. "That would explain why my beans are so cold."


	12. Overview of the Wild Things of the Woods

Masser loomed full over the horizon, the lower half of the dull red orb hidden from view by the edge of the world. Secunda hovered, a mere sliver in the sky, shining its last waning light before it disappeared completely in time for First Planting.

With no possibility of Agronak returning to Crowhaven in time for the celebrations, he wondered what the villagers would do to celebrate this year. The first festival he'd hosted in his manor, inviting everyone to join him for feasting and drinking. The year afterwards the tavern was back in business, and somehow all the villagers had managed to cram into it for the party.

This year he'd hoped to arrange for the celebration to take place along the main street, or the village square, perhaps turning it into a small fair and attracting visitors. It probably wouldn't go as planned, but hopefully Toralf, the innkeeper, would step in to make it the best one yet. A pang of homesickness swept Agronak as he thought of his manor, his villagers, his home. Much as he sometimes reminisced about life in the Arena, he wouldn't trade Crowhaven for anything.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Pulling it open, two blurs streaked past, racing for the bed.

"Mara's tears," came the muttered oath from the hallway. Looking away from the two dogs, settling themselves comfortably on the rose embroidered quilt, he found Cerisse in the hall, expression of disbelief on her face.

"Did you knock? Or was it them?"

"_Amaraldane_," she declared sternly to the unrepentant dogs as she entered the room. "You do _not_ have to live up to the name."

"Is that their breed?"

"No," she shook her head, the long braid down her back sliding across her dark blue robe, "that's my father's term for them. It means 'heralds' in Bosmeris." Sitting down at the foot of the bed, she stroked the sleek brown head of the nearest dog. "This is Dar, and that's Morag."

"I'm guessing the names mean something." Agronak offered a hand for the aged hound to sniff from his spot near the pillows.

"Dar means thief in Ta'agra. My father's got a passion for Khajiiti writings at the moment. Morag is from the tail end of his Dunmeris obsession—it means forester." Dar relaxed as she gently tugged on his ears.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, feeling the soft breath of Morag on his side, Agronak absently pet the elderly animal. The dog responded with a heavy sigh and rolled onto his back, right on top of the pillows. "Is there something you wanted?" Much as he enjoyed animals, and visits, it was late. The dinner and subsequent chatting afterwards proved pleasant, yet tiring. Proper first impressions required a surprising amount of energy.

"That's what I came to ask. Are you comfortable?" She meant the question in every sense—comfortable with the room, comfortable with her family, comfortable with the unusual situation. It was kind of her to be so concerned.

"Yes. You have a lovely home and family."

"Mmm. I know they aren't conventional..." She continued to regard Dar, gently rubbing the scruff of his neck.

"Don't apologize for them," he corrected. Overall, he'd found them quite charming, if a bit eccentric.

"Apologize? I'm not ashamed of my family." The hidden smile tucked away in the corner of her mouth returned. "But sometimes others take them the wrong way. _Gzalz'riss_."

"I'm going to hear a lot of that, aren't I?" All throughout the evening snippets of foreign languages were bandied about, most often by Alabyval, but occasionally by his children. Only Evie and Agronak had stuck with Common.

"Sorry. Habit. It's Ta'agra. Translates to 'absurd people.' Don't hesitate to ask if we say something you don't understand." Cerisse smiled softly at Dar as she explained.

"What does _var var var, rabi_ mean?" he ventured to ask, hoping she wouldn't laugh too loudly, lest she rouse her family.

Cerisse let out a soft snort before answering. "_Var var var_ approximates to 'it is just so.' That's an appropriate answer to make when Papa gets into one of his moods. But _rabi_ is the term for 'most revered father.'"

"I called him father?" Little wonder they'd found it so amusing.

"_Var var var_," she replied with a smile, eliciting a chuckle from him in response. While petting the highly contented Dar, she explained how things generally worked in the Hawkton household. Breakfast and lunch were flexible, attendance at dinner was expected, and as a guest he had access to all of the rooms on the main floor. The staff would accommodate requests where possible, but they weren't to be ordered around as slaves. Apparently some visiting nobility had to be told of this arrangement. Generally they were the kind who weren't invited back.

"How long do you think this will take? I need to get back to my village..."

"Until the tenth," she answered while standing. Dar perked his ears up at her departure from the bed, while Morag continued snoring in bursts. "Hopefully by then we'll get the signal it's safe for you to go home."

It took a few calls and a bit of coaxing, but finally Morag reluctantly left the cushy bed behind. With a quick shake and a wag of his tail he trotted towards the door, Dar circling around him in a whirl of excited energy.

"Goodnight," Agronak said as he saw her out.

"May you rest well on warm sands under the sugared light of the moons," she replied. She shrugged her shoulders at his blank expression. "Maybe it sounds better in Ta'agra. Goodnight, Agronak."

He leaned against the door frame, amusing himself as he watched her walk down the hall, barefoot and talking to the dogs. "No moonlight stroll for you tonight, amaraldane," she whispered to them, trying not to get tangled up with the eight roving limbs underfoot. "The only thing you get to herald is my trip to bed."

* * *

Feinting to the right, Agronak spun clockwise, bringing the sword across in a powerful slash. The length of the blade sparkled as it sliced through the air, brilliant flashes of emerald and silver catching his eye when it cut the sunlight in two.

Starting the pattern of movement again from the beginning, this time holding the sword in his left hand, his thoughts drifted pleasantly. Forget sitting around and thinking of meadows—he always found practicing technique the perfect entrance to a meditative frame of mind.

Currently his new weapon occupied his consciousness, little threads of ideas stretching out until they fizzled out of contemplation. It was a magnificent longsword, exquisitely constructed and well suited to his use. Durog had mentioned they didn't make them quite like this anymore, and the mysteries of its origins had taken up most of the Ri'Darsha defense pattern. Had Dwarves fashioned it? Orcs? Nords? How did it come to be in a store in Wayrest? How many hands had held it, used it, spilled blood with it?

Why was it in his hands now? Cerisse had insisted on a weapon with silver, but the pure silver longswords in the store he'd deemed too soft. There hadn't been a moment's pause when Cerisse had learnt the price of the orcish blade, and when Agronak had pronounced it more than satisfactory, she'd immediately purchased it. Bandits didn't require anything so fancy to fend them off. Not that they'd encountered anything more threatening than the lone wolf by the bluffs during the journey.

Now he'd be the proud owner of it for several more days, then he'd be headed back to Cyrodiil – where he belonged. He'd already decided to leave the sword behind. It was too expensive to purchase from Cerisse, and too generous to accept as a gift. In the meantime though, he truly enjoyed possessing it, slashing the air with the perfectly balanced blade.

"Not bad, lad. Bit more practice and you might get there."

Turning, he saw Hjoldir walking out from behind a hedge, in the process of lighting his ever-present pipe. The two hounds followed along behind, muddy pawed and panting.

"You really think so?" Agronak couldn't resist asking with a bemused grin, sheathing his blade. While he wasn't in peak condition as he'd been during his years as Grand Champion, rarely did a day pass where he didn't spend time in the morning exercising and practicing. Just because he'd retired didn't mean he'd let all his hard work go to waste.

"Well, you've got the moves, I'll give you that. But do you have the experience? Do you know what it's like to stare into the eyes of a man who wants nothing more than to slice you open stem to stern?" Hjoldir punctuated his questions with little jabs of his pipe stem. His pale blue eye sparkled as it studied Agronak.

"Yes, I do." Agronak replied simply.

"Oh," Hjoldir was a bit taken aback. Rallying, he waved the smoldering pipe around once more, leaving little trails of smoke in the crisp morning air. "Well, I wager you've never been in the midst of a raging battle, enemies all around you, smoke clouding your vision as the screams of friend and foe alike are drowned out by the pounding of your own heart."

"I fought at Bruma." Agronak stated.

"Hmm," Hjoldir appraised Agronak once more, puffing away at the pipe clenched firmly in his mouth. A small yellow patch of his white beard corresponded with the positioning of the bowl. "That was a big one, by all accounts. But tell me this—have you ever done all that while at sea?"

"Can't say that I have," Agronak answered truthfully.

Hjoldir broke out into a large grin, revealing the gaps in his stained teeth. "Now, that's what I'm talking about. Bet you don't know the first thing about maritime combat." The Nord began walking along the path back towards the house as he spoke, Agronak falling into step beside him. "It's not like land—less'n you're fighting on quicksand, there's always somewhere else to run to. But when a man's on a boat, there's naught else but the sea, and she's a cold-hearted mistress. Do you even know what to do to the enemy's ship?"

"Board it?" Agronak asked lightly as he scratched Morag's head. He doubted knowledge about fighting at sea would ever prove useful to him—he'd never managed staying upright, let alone even considering wielding a sword while wandering around on a pitching, bucking deck.

"Ha!" Hjoldir laughed at the reply. "That comes last. No, here's what you do..."

Hjoldir continued to give advice and tips as they walked back to the manor, including some that had nothing to do with the sea itself—like the one about being sure to avoid blond prostitutes at all costs. According to lore they were witches, out to steal a man's soul. The reactions of the sailors back in the Dead Gnome to that beauty Synderius had met made more sense now. Though Hjoldir told him blonds who coloured their hair were perfectly safe.

Drawing near the end of the path Hjoldir lapsed into thought, puffing on his pipe. "You might do alright if you worked at it. A bit old to start up in the company, and a bit bulky—there's a lot of tight corners—but you'd come in handy in a tussle. Not many Orcs on the seas though. Most don't take too well to water."

"I'll think about it," Agronak replied honestly. He'd certainly spend some time wondering why it sounded like the company's goals matched those of pirates—boarding, capturing, and plundering generally failed to fall under the label of 'legitimate commercial enterprises'.

"Course, Alabyval wasn't much to look at, but he became the savviest sailor I ever crewed with. Damnedest thing—ones you least expect turning out to be the fiercest." A loud rumble from Agronak's stomach intruded on the conversation, prompting Hjoldir to urge him to run in and eat breakfast. "Don't dally too long, lest you keep Danai from the dishes. And mind you leave her be—I got my eye on her."

With a wink of his good eye the Nord walked off, humming a shanty under his breath as the dogs jaunted along after him. Intending to follow the man's advice—both about grabbing a bite to eat as well as refraining from flirting with the cook—Agronak headed towards the back door. But as he walked closer to it he caught odd snippets of conversation floating out from the open dining room window, and he couldn't help listening.

"...don't know, Dyn. What if he suspects?"

"Why would he, Ri Ri? You're _perfect_. It'll work—trust me." Gondyn answered, smile in his words.

"But what about Eddy?" Ria asked, almost whispering the name.

"Oh, forget about that twit. We both know it isn't going to last. It's a surprise it's gone on as long as it has. Ri Ri—_Ria_—think about it. It's fate. Would you deny destiny? Would you tell the stars they lie? The moons to stop rising?" By the tone, Agronak could tell the young man was trying to dazzle his sister with her own propensity for the dramatic.

"Well, it is rather _romantic_..."

"Of course it is. That's the point, isn't it?" Gondyn's voice came closer to the window, causing Agronak to quickly move away, very concerned by the overheard discussion. Still thinking on it he distractedly agreed with Danai, the cook, that he wanted breakfast, and was surprised when she ordered him into the dining room to wait.

"Morning. Sleep alright?" Gondyn asked from his spot, perched on the window's ledge.

"Aggy!" Ria greeted enthusiastically. "My, that's quite a sword you have. You'll have to show me it sometime. Come, sit by me. We'll have breakfast together."

Wondering if he'd really noticed Gondyn nodding encouragingly at Ria out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't see a way to refuse the request without appearing rude. "It's Agronak," he corrected, making sure to keep the chair as far from Ria as possible.

"Oh, Agronak, Agrinak, it doesn't matter. Aggy is ever so much simpler," she answered breathlessly.

Before he could protest Gondyn cut in, stealing an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table. "We were just debating what to do today. Did you have any plans?"

"I hadn't decided yet," Agronak hedged, certain there was a reason behind the innocent question. He was starting to get an idea what the sibling's conspiracy was, and it wasn't one he liked. "There were some interesting books in the library..."

"That sounds like a marvelous idea. I love reading. Why, we could even take turns reading to each other! I bet you're a delightful reader. You have such a commanding voice," Ria gushed, patting Agronak on the arm as she spoke.

"But I have been stuck in a carriage for days, so maybe I'll take a walk instead." Agronak hastily added.

"Even better! I love walking. It's such a romantic pastime—strolling through the meadows, nobody else around, all alone..."

"Though Hjoldir did offer to show me the flocks," Agronak said before Ria could continue painting the mental picture. She didn't strike him as the type of girl who'd want to stand around staring at sheep and cows all day. Not that he particularly wanted to either...

"Ooh, Aggy, that's perfect!" Ria cooed, much to his dismay. "I can teach you the names of the lambs. There's Mr. Fluffy, and Snuggles, and you _have_ to meet Honey. She's just the sweetest little thing."

"Who is?" Cerisse asked as she entered the room.

"Reesy," Gondyn greeted, standing up from his chair. "We were just talking about our plans for today. You're going to be busy with your kitchen witchery, aren't you?"

"Dyn, what are you up to?" Cerisse eyed her brother suspiciously. He continued eating his apple, leaning idly against the table, looking back at her with a grin. "You know perfectly well Mama wants me to make more salve. Any other chore and you'd be the one doing it."

"Ugh. You'll have to go mucking about in the dirt, grubbing for roots, won't you?" Ria asked with distaste.

"Yes, Ria, of course I'll go harvesting. You don't have to make such a face about it." Cerisse sat down with a shake of the head. "Dyn, I was thinking. Just because you can't make the salve, doesn't mean you can't carry my basket..."

"You can't start making up chores. The bet doesn't work that way," he retorted.

"Don't be like that, Dyn. You can go play in the mud with Reesy," a pink tongue was stuck out at the mention of dirt, "and I'll keep our guest entertained." Ria flashed Agronak a bright smile. The other siblings didn't seem to notice, having begun bickering lightly over what did, and did not, qualify as a chore.

Seeing an opportunity for salvation, Agronak interrupted their discussion. "Cerisse, could I carry the basket? I'd like to learn more about harvesting."

Cerisse's curious look and Ria's large pout at his request made sense to Agronak. Gondyn's amused smirk and meaningful eyebrow wiggle, however, did not.

* * *

"Reesy, darling, show me your shoes." Evie paused mid-stroke, calling out to Cerisse from her chair in the sunshine, sketchbook in hand.

Complying with the request Cerisse lifted the hem of her simple woolen dress, revealing laced leather shoes. She handed Agronak a large wooden basket, lid tied down, then began walking towards the gardens. "Frostfire, my sickle! I'll be right back," she stated loudly, running back into the house. "Can't cut anything without it."

Evie waved Agronak over. Chatting easily with him, silver strands of hair fluttering in the late morning breeze, she spoke of the plans for the First Planting celebrations tomorrow. Her eldest son, his wife, and their children were journeying from their nearby home of Tamborne to join them for the evening.

Growing slightly discomfited by Evie's rhapsodizing about the joys and benefits of grandchildren, Agronak was glad when Cerisse finally returned, sickle attached to her belt. Politely taking his leave of Evie he quickly caught up with Cerisse.

Large brooding clouds hung to the south, dull blue in hue, but the sky above them was almost clear. Little wisps of white, curling away like feathers, floated towards the east, pushed by the occasional breeze. They spoke sparingly, Agronak glad for the exercise after the more than generous breakfast. Apparently Danai viewed feeding an Orcperial as more of a challenge than a chore.

As they ventured into the neighbouring forest Cerisse began speaking of the subtleties of nature magic. It was ancient, magic so old it was often dismissed as superstition or folklore, rather than respected as a powerful force. Witches were highly attuned to it, and Orc shamans also wielded it to spectacular effect. But the merfolk, especially the Altmer, found it primitive and eschewed it. Without study and inclusion in magical institutions practitioners dwindled to a mere handful..

She explained that while she obviously couldn't train him to be a witch, she wanted to use the opportunity to introduce him to the basic concepts.

"Such as the reason a witch takes a full basket out to collect ingredients?" he joked, switching the heavy container to his other arm.

"Surely you're strong enough to handle such a light load," she teased. "Why, do you need me to carry it?"

"No," he quickly answered, "you aren't built to be lugging this around."

Cerisse paused, standing on top of the gnarled exposed root of an elderly tree, fixing Agronak with an appraising stare. "You think me weak," she held up her hand to keep him from interrupting. "Or at the very least, defenseless. I saw it in your eyes at Durog's, when you tried to get me to carry a weapon. I see it again now."

"You're not exactly a warrior, and you don't call yourself a mage," he stated, trying not to speak too plainly. The small woman, unarmed and unarmoured, almost screamed 'easy prey'.

"That's because I'm not much of either. Nor am I a proper witch, merely a friend of the coven," she agreed.

"Well, no offense, but you wouldn't last ten minutes in the Arena."

Cerisse laughed at that, mirthful noise fading away into the quiet forest. "Why I'd ever step foot in the Arena is beyond me. What is it I need to protect myself from? What enemies stalk the shadows of the world to attack me? There are very few I fear, far less than most," she declared with quiet certainty.

"That's the wrong attitude to take. What about that wolf on the bluffs? What if it had attacked?" he demanded. Ignoring the dangers of the world did nothing to make them go away. "And what about bandits?"

"The wolf was no danger. The creatures of nature may anger, but they follow certain rules. Know them, and you will know peace in the wilderness. Only unnatural creatures and wicked men are followers of chaos. I have my methods of dealing with each." Cerisse lightly shrugged as she answered.

"What about me? What would you do if I attacked?" Agronak pressed. This sort of naiveté was dangerous!

"What, here and now?" she questioned, genuine amusement tucked away in her smile. "There are a few strategies I could adopt. But first you'd have to catch me."

Agronak snorted at the concept—as if someone with such smaller legs could hope to elude him for long.

"Mmm, you doubt me. Put that basket down and come over here," she waved him to join her on the thick root. "Do you see that giant tree straight ahead? I'll race you there and back, loser carries the basket for the rest of the day."

"That's not fair." He shook his head at her. "My conscience wouldn't let me watch you drag it around without a break."

"Mine will be quite happy to," she grinned. "So, do you accept the challenge?"

Staring down at her, Agronak could see there was a seriousness behind the light talk. "Agreed. I'll let you have a head start if you wish—I know you're wearing shoes today."

"No. Left them in the house when I fetched my sickle," she told him with an impish grin. "Good luck!"

With that she leaped off the root, running away to the side. Not sure where she was going, since the tree lay right ahead, Agronak ran towards it. The undergrowth tugged at him as he moved past, spindly twigs brushing at his legs. Thin trees, the youth of the ancient forest, kept necessitating a change of course, and the slick ground, coated with layers of slimy leaves partly dissolved on their return journey to the earth, challenged his footing. But the thick trunk of the giant tree grew ever closer, and as he almost reached it he wondered what had happened to Cerisse. It was now mere feet away, and he'd not seen a sign of her.

The sudden appearance of her running figure ahead, darting out from a clump of evergreen bushes, startled him. As did the fact she touched the trunk while smirking at him, then kept running to the side, disappearing once more behind a stand of beech trees. Reaching the tree, pausing only to graze his fingertip on it, he turned around and ran back towards the start.

His speed was faster this time, the route already mapped in his mind. Even so, he kept glancing around for a glimpse of brown hair or green cloth. With no sight of Cerisse, he forged gamely on. When he reached the elderly larch they'd started from he felt a brief burst of pleasure at his victory. This was obviously a game she played often, and it felt good to beat her at it.

The feeling died as he hopped up onto the bent root and caught sight of her sitting on the ground beside the basket, smiling up at him. "How? What magic is this?" he demanded.

"No spells, Agronak," she explained. "Knowledge. The fae show me the fastest routes. If you saw them too I dare say you'd beat me—I've never had such a close race before."

"What are fae?" he asked. She'd mentioned them earlier, but he'd never heard the term before..

Cerisse stood, brushing off her skirt, waiting until he'd picked up the heavy basket before starting her explanation. The magic flowing through everything—from the smallest grub to the tallest tree—was the basis of the fae. It wasn't certain if they grew from the magic, or if the magic came from them, but they were intertwined inseparably. While they could be found everywhere, they tended to be most prolific in the thickest forests, the deepest valleys, and other tucked away corners of the Empire. Some could see them from birth, while others never could.

"And you can?" Agronak asked, lowering the basket into her waiting arms. They paused in a small clearing beside a stream. Sunlight danced across the surface of the water as it flowed over rocks, creating miniature waterfalls on its journey to the bay.

"Yes. With a bit of practice, I think you could too. This should help. Here," she began pulling items out, handing them to him. A trowel, three sealed glass jars filled with water, and a small cloth bag were tucked into the crook of his arm.

"Rocks?" he asked. The stones purchased from the shy alchemist in Cromville Commons lay inside the bag. "What do rocks have to do with anything?"

"Think of them like enchanted items. Those need magic to charge, and they can only be enchanted with certain effects. Stones are similar, but they need to be charged with a different sort of magic." Shaking the rocks out onto his open palm, she pointed at each in turn. "Jade needs the grounding power of the earth, turquoise that of moving water, and amethyst the light of the sky." She gestured to each element absently.

"To do what?"

She bade him put down the items, and as he did so she tugged out an amulet hidden underneath her dress. It was a raw emerald, uncut, polished smooth. A delicate cap of silver attached it to a thin chain.

"Feel this," she commanded, pulling the chain taught against her neck as she offered it.

It was still warm from contact with her skin. Other than that he could feel nothing special about the gem tucked away in the palm of his hand.

"Wait," she ordered, wrapping her hands around his closed fist, "stones move much slower than we do. Close your eyes. Give it time."

Humouring her odd request, he shut his eyes and relaxed. Her warm fingers gently tensed and flexed, maintaining their grip on his hand. It felt nice, a comfortable and familiar touch. But he could detect no change from the smooth lump of rock in his palm.

Until the humming started. So faint at first he almost dismissed it, but as the tiny pulses began to travel up his arm, like a second miniature heartbeat, he felt the hairs on his skin rise up as it rolled on towards his body. The tiny hum became a thrum, his hand feeling like it was holding onto a drum, vibrating with every thwack of the mallet.

Cerisse's grip tightened as she murmured words of encouragement, instructing him not to fight the magic. The wary part of him, developed from years of survival, wanted to let go of this strange talisman. But another part held on, savouring the unique sensation, enjoying the growing feelings. He felt if he could last, if he could withstand the odd waves of force—powerful, yet not painful—shooting through his arm, then something would be achieved, some mystery explained.

Then suddenly it had stopped, and he could feel nothing but the slick surface of the gem pressed into his palm. Opening his eyes with surprise he found Cerisse staring intently at him, the knuckles of her fingers white as she pressed his hand closed.

"Don't," she whispered as he tried to relax his grip, "wait a while longer. Enjoy it."

The question about what it was he should be enjoying fell away as he realized the energy from the emerald still ran throughout his body—but in time with the beating of his own heart. A sense of power, reminiscent of strength and victory, lingered on the edges of his mind. This was far unlike any enchantment he'd before encountered, a more natural sensation than the layers of magicka that bestowed increased speed or promises of greater health.

She smiled, her hands falling away from his, satisfied he finally understood. It was then, sharing a moment of triumph, he realized just how close they were standing, how near their bodies, their faces, their _lips_, were to each other. A small thrill that had nothing to do with nature magic ran through him.

Her eyes widened as her hands flew up, prying at his fist to retrieve her amulet. A slight blush shone under her freckles, and she wouldn't meet his eye. "Now you have an idea of what can eventually be achieved, let's get to work," Cerisse instructed, stepping back slightly and pointing to the objects on the grass. As he bent to retrieve them he heard her murmuring to herself, pressing the stone hidden underneath the fabric of her gown to her chest. "Such a deep heartbeat."

The instructions were simple—one rock per jar of rainwater. The jade was to be buried, the turquoise placed in the stream, and the amethyst left above ground. She wouldn't specify where, but told him to put them where he saw fit.

Pulling an extra trowel from the basket, she moved over to the stream bed, joking about needing to play in the dirt. While he completed his tasks he occasionally noticed her watching him out of the corner of his eye, and after giving her a meaningful wink he was rewarded with another blush and the sudden need of hers to ignore him completely.

Though when she returned, skirt covered with mud, slick roots clutched in her hands, he couldn't help noticing the pattern of dots on her chest. They looked like fingerprints, all centred over the small lump of her hidden talisman.


	13. Some Familial Customs of Menevia

They were lost.

Or rather, he was lost. After a while the forest all looked the same—naked branches dotted with the beginnings of leaves, moss covered rocks placed haphazardly about, as if drunkenly flung down by the Gods themselves, and the countless ditches carpeted with leaf mould and mud.

Through it all danced that nymph of a woman, flitting from tree to root to bud like an errant bumblebee, touching and smelling and even _talking _to the plants. Agronak had caught the hushed whispers on the breeze as Cerisse hunched over a bush, or inspected a patch of bark.

She certainly wasn't lost, darting behind gnarled trunks to emerge with a handful of yellow speckled mushrooms, or reaching into the recesses of a fallen log to pull out gossamer strands of spiderwebs, her fingertips trailing impossibly thin ribbons of sunlight in the air behind them. There was never a moment of hesitation before she knelt in the muck to dig out a bulb, never a flinch when she collected tree sap on her sleeve as well as her jar, never a moue of distaste when handling the smallest inhabitants of the forest floor.

Shaking his head, he declined her offer to set her latest discovery to crawl on his arm. A goggle-eyed snail, rescued from a nest of collected moss, stared up at him from the palm of her hand as one of her dirt-spattered fingertips traced the swirls of its mottled shell.

"You've caught another one with your charms." A hint of meaning to the words, and he was rewarded with the blossom of pink blush under the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks before she quickly moved away to set the snail down on a distant stump.

It was a delightful diversion, this harmless flirtation of theirs. During their expedition through the quiet trees there'd been the subtle communication of non-verbal messages, a code composed of looks, posture, and proximity. Every now and again he'd make her flush, and she'd suddenly need to scamper over _there_, placing the cool breeze between them as an invisible buffer. Each time she'd somehow end up near at hand again, stealing glances until he set her off once more.

Reveling in the lightness of the atmosphere, glad to forget about villagers and money and plots for a time, he switched the increasingly heavy basket to his other arm. The load had been considerably eased with the removal of three water filled jars back in the clearing, but the continuous gathering of roots and berries, seeds and stems, had increased the burden to almost the same weight, perhaps even heavier. He had a strong suspicion if he hadn't taken so many opportunities to raise a blush, then she'd not have harvested half so many reagents.

But then, where would the fun in that be?

"You speak bramble-ish?" he asked, watching as she carefully scraped thorns off the thick vines, muttering the entire time.

Shaking her head as she came back, she answered while sorting through the remaining pouches in the basket, looking for an empty one. Pretty soon there wouldn't be any containers left for her cuttings. "Sometimes the plants need a bit of...healing."

"There's a spell to heal _plants_?" What a strange concept. He wondered if farmers knew about this.

"Not _heal_ them," she frowned, searching for a better word, "soothe them. Sometimes they need to be coaxed, sometimes serenaded, and sometimes scolded. But those kind of plants are best avoided in the first place."

"Angry plants," he scoffed. "How exactly do you chastise a flower?"

"Same way you get it to bloom. Let me show you." Flitting off into the woods, Agronak following behind, Cerisse spoke of the unique language of nature spells. Which wasn't a language at all—the words themselves didn't matter, it was the magic whispering underneath them that did.

Stopping in front of an old rose bush, woody stems trailing off in all directions, she bade him put the basket down and lean in with her. As she cupped the end of one branch he listened carefully. One part of his mind could hear words like _bloom_ and _grow_ as she spoke, but they were more of an impression than an actual sound.

Tingles of magicka ran up and down his body as he watched the end of the branch; a rosebud growing, swelling, then blooming in the span of moments. A dark purple rose, delicate petals edged with black, was plucked with a swift swipe of the sickle.

"Black rose. It isn't really black, but that's what they call it. Not many people care for them—from a distance they look like they're wilted. But up close, their real beauty is obvious," she explained, holding the flower out for his inspection. The colour of each petal was a gradient, from a dark amethyst at the centre deepening out to solid black along the edges. The play of the light on the velvet surface only deepened its shadows and mystery.

"Neat trick. Must come in handy for harvesting." He watched her work the stem into a buttonhole on his shirt. Leaning his head down to better see, as well as bringing it closer to her own, he saw her suddenly flush again.

"No, it's quite useless for that. Potions rely on the magic of the plant—forcing it to grow only traps the magic of the witch." She patted the rose into place as she stepped backwards. She walked off while speaking, her words flowing out quicker, as if she was trying to fill the space between them with an invisible barrier of sound. "It did come in handy when Mama went through her rose period. She had me playing with the bushes daily, trying to get them to bloom just so for her paintings."

"What's her obsession now?"

"Nothing in particular, but it is spring again." Cerisse looked back as she clambered over a low embankment to give him a rueful smile. "Every year it's the same thing. Weddings and grandchildren—she's been driving me and Ria crazy since Sun's Dawn with her little hints."

"Not Gondyn?"

"No, he's '_too young_.' She subscribes to the belief Hawkton men don't marry until they're much more mature. Not like that will ever happen with Dyn." She shook her head, indicating her lack of confidence in the theory.

"What does your father think of it?" Agronak inquired. Most fathers had rather rigid criteria for marrying off their daughters.

"Oh, he's got his own schemes for our marriages. I don't think it would matter who we marry, just so long as they speak another language. Until Mordistyr left for Senchal Papa kept extolling the virtues of Khajiiti women. I could probably marry a beggar, so long as he came from Elsweyr and spoke Ta'agra." Cerisse joked with a grin.

"I met a few of those in the Imperial City. Let me see if I can remember their names..." Agronak tapped his chin with his free hand, as if deep in thought.

She laughed at that, a gilt edged noise of delight trailing off into an indelicate snort. A hint of eerily familiar girlish giggles ran underneath her mirth, echoing back from the trees...

The basket hit the ground with a muffled thump, landing in a moist patch of grass. Cerisse's indignant protests over the mishandling of her ingredients trailed off into confusion as he motioned for her to get behind him with one noiseless wave, his other hand brandishing the newly unsheathed sword.

Pulse quickened, the exhilarating rush before battle heightening the senses, he swept the edge of the clearing with his eyes, listening for a tell-tale rustle or snap of twigs. But the forest gave nothing away, wind stirring damp leaves and dry branches in a disheartening veil of secrecy.

"What is it?" Cerisse whispered urgently.

"Spriggan," he replied sharply, trying to keep their conversation to a minimum, wary as he awaited the attack. Unexpectedly it came from behind, a soft swipe of hand landing against his shoulderblade in one chiding movement.

"Don't do that! You worried me," Cerrise scolded as he whirled around, shocked by her foolishness. A faint bubbling laugh was picked up by the breeze to swirl around his ears, frustrating in its lack of direction.

"Quiet. It's still here." The authority in his command failed to make an impression, evident in her impatient little toss of the head as she bent over to examine the contents of the forsaken basket.

"Of course she's still here. It is a forest," she remarked, shaking a small clay jar upside down to make sure the lid held. "Where else do you think they live? Now put that away before you hurt something."

"I'm not sure you heard me. _Spriggan_," he growled, staring towards a clump of young trees. Did something just move opposite the wind over there?

"Agronak," she called out, the firmness in her voice strong enough to make him glance back to see her standing beside the basket, glaring at him in annoyance. "I will not let you harm her."

The point of his sword swayed a little, her statement so bizarre his arm drooped in confusion. Mistaking the movement as a yield, her posture relaxed along with the fire in her words. "Sheath your sword and I'll call her out. She just wants to meet you."

Stepping closer to Cerisse, maintaining a firm grip on the sword hilt, he lowered his voice while keeping his eyes on the trees. "What are you talking about? Have you any idea what spriggans can do in battle? Stay behind and stay alert."

Before he could head back to investigate the suspicious section of forest, he encountered resistance in the form of two stubborn arms locked around his elbow, attached to two stubborn little heels planted firmly in the spongy ground.

"Agronak." The tone she used on him was similar to the one used to summon a wayward dog or a straggling child, an invisible leash that tugged the attention around. Earnest green eyes looked up at him, matching the sincerity in her voice. "Put the sword away, please. We're safe with her. Trust me."

Against instinct and reason, he sheathed his sword reluctantly, body poised to grab it in an instant. Warily, he listened as Cerisse began talking to the trees in a strange language, the sounds reminiscent of flowing streams and wind swept meadows. There was no magic to it he could detect, just an unfamiliar form of speech designed for a differently shaped tongue.

A young sapling, surrounded by underbrush, began to unfold itself. The branches bent down, revealing themselves as slender arms, the trunk separating into nimble legs. Strange amber eyes opened with another blood chilling giggle. Cerisse's warm grip, still tight against his arm, gave him a reassuring squeeze that did nothing to unwind the tension coiled through his body.

Still speaking words he couldn't decipher, Cerisse held on tightly as she nodded at him, obviously saying something about him to the laughing tree creature. When the spriggan took a gliding step closer towards him he stepped back involuntarily, pulling Cerrise along with a stumble.

"She likes your skin—it reminds her of mountains. She just wants to touch it." Cerisse's explanations were met with such an intense look of abhorrance she didn't press the issue, instead talking to the spriggan with a gentle shake of the head. The creature, small spring blossoms coiling around her chin, replied with a graceful wave of her arms in a large circle—a movement that brought his hand halfway to his sword again, kept off only by a counter-tug from Cerisse—before bounding away in deer-like hops into the trees.

Feminine giggles filled his ears as he watched the spriggan carefully, winding its way past bushes and tree trunks, until it vanished from view—whether by taking root once more, or hiding from sight he couldn't tell. It wasn't until the small snort, certainly not a spriggan-esque noise, did he realize it was Cerisse laughing as she hung from his elbow. Shaking off her clutching arms he glared at her, offended she was taking such mirth from his unhappiness.

"You don't like spriggans?" she inquired, waving for him to collect the basket and begin their journey home.

"No," he answered emphatically, "nobody does. Damn near impossible to kill, crawling with disease, and casters of some awful, powerful spells. Horrible things to fight." He snatched the basket up with a fierce tug, a small clump of mud stuck to the corner flying off to land on his shoe. "Not to mention the constant giggling. It's enough to chill any man's blood."

"Fight them?" Cerisse asked, pausing as she wound between bushes covered with brilliant yellow flowers, petals like ragged strips of cloth bestowing a scent which made him think of rancid butter. "Why would anyone provoke a spriggan? They're so gentle!"

"What?" he spluttered, wiping off a smear of golden pollen clinging to his thigh. "They're vicious, remorseless creatures. I'd call them demons, but the daedra I fought weren't as bloodthirsty. They attack for no reason—other than amusement, maybe, since they never stop laughing."

"Is everything in Cyrodiil rabid?" she asked, aghast at the report. "Or do they only attack for no reason _after_ you've already pulled out a sword? Really, I can't see why anyone would ever fight one. It's much more enjoyable to talk to them. Spriggans tell the best jokes."

"Jokes?"

"Oh, yes. Right before she left she told me a good one about an eagle and a hare under a berry bush..." Seeing the skeptical look on his face she lowered her hands, which had been miming the diving of the eagle into the bush—at least, that's what he hoped she'd been doing. "Well, it doesn't really translate. But it was funny."

With a shrug of her shoulders she began walking up a tumble of large rocks that formed a low hill, marking her path with small muddy footprints as she chuckled with remembered amusement. Following behind, carefully balancing the weight of the basket as his wide feet found purchase on the smooth stone, he pondered again how he'd ended up being led through the wilderness by a woman who preferred the conversation of woodland creatures to courtiers.

And for the first time, he briefly wondered what it would be like to leave her behind.

* * *

The prickles, tiny sparkling flares of warm pain, danced across his back, preventing all possibility of sleep. Pacing quietly over the wooden floor Agronak waited for the irritation to subside, staring at the runes on the label. He wondered what it said, briefly considering asking Alabyval to translate it for him. But knowing Synderius there was a very strong possibility the answer would range from the embarrassing to the salacious—perhaps it was better if he didn't ask.

The bumps had subsided, leaving behind only a mild itch. Except he had a new problem to contend with, his skin having taken on a scaly quality as it healed. Convinced the salve was working, he now put it on in the evening before bed, preferring to itch and squirm in the privacy of his room rather than at the breakfast table.

Leaning his hands against the windowsill, he planted one foot far behind the other, arching his back in a welcome stretch. The day's toil had left his body worn but satisfied, a comfortable fatigue after so much time spent cramped in a jostling carriage. The muscles in his forearms protested their exhaustion, worn from carrying the heavy basket as well as the tasks in which he'd engaged this evening.

With a smile he switched legs, trying to deepen the curve in his back. In a clever bid to stay away from Ria, whose motives he still wasn't sure of—but certainly didn't care for—he'd volunteered to help Cerisse with her 'kitchen witchery.' Out in the summer kitchen, a small stone building with a massive fireplace, high walls, and a ceiling covered with suspended bunches of dried plants, he'd spent the evening watching as she prepared salve, altering the purpose of each formulation with the addition of certain ingredients. It was simple alchemy, with only a touch of nature magic, but the results were most effective; at least, so she'd told him.

Being tasked with peeling the thick bark off a gnarled root mass, the tendrils curling around themselves in awkward knots, it had taken a large preparation of all purpose salve, a mixture of burn unguent, and a small pot of gel for Hjoldir's bad eye, before he'd finally finished his assignment. Finally free to observe he'd stood behind her, listening to her instructions while offering to help stir. As soon as his hand had joined hers on the old wooden spoon, handle curled from constant use, she'd flushed crimson and given him a new job.

Standing up, interlacing his fingers and stretching them far overhead, the muscles in his arms sent out a grateful chorus of relief. Peeling had been bad enough, but it had been the large mortar and pestle, into which the carefully peeled roots had been placed with a handful of tiny purple seed pods, which had fatigued his arms so much they trembled when he tried to hold them straight. The roots had quickly mashed under the heavy grinding of the pitted rock, but the seeds, oh, the _seeds_. At first he'd wondered if she wasn't mistaken, convinced they were too tough to crush. But then one had burst open, turning into fine powder in a matter of strokes, leaving him no choice but to resign himself to the continual lifting, twisting, and grinding with the heavy pestle.

He still found it interesting she'd had him spend so much time working on those tasks when she'd not used any of the results. As he swung his arms from side to side, shaking out the soreness, he came to the conclusion she'd merely used the work as a distraction, keeping his hands busy and his body away from hers.

Crossing his wrists, pressing his palms together, he pushed his arms out towards the window, a delightful stretch growing between his shoulderblades. He could see the thinnest edge of Secunda, now a mere suggestion of moon, as it sat over its larger brother Masser, so fat and almost full it didn't seem able to raise itself, lower half hidden from view by the horizon. Tomorrow would be First Planting, evidence of the festivities already present in the covered dishes in the kitchen, results of Danai's bustling work. He found himself looking forward to it—the holiday always heralded the arrival of spring in his mind, a welcome visitor after the particularly dull winter season he'd had.

The distant barks of the hounds startled him from his musings. Leaning forward to get a better view, Agronak spotted them chasing a flying stick across the field, holding a brief tugging battle over it before Dar trotted back victorious. Tail held high, he delivered the prize to a crouching cloaked figure. It wasn't until she tossed it again, slice of moonlight illuminating her face, that he recognized Cerisse.

Odd she was still awake after such a long day, odder still she was outside with the dogs in the moonlight. Though what he found oddest of all was her game brought her closer and closer to the edge of the far forest, trailing cloak and twitching tails playing about until the trees swallowed them all from view.

* * *

The dry log, newly tossed onto the blaze, sizzled with a high pitched whistle of smoke, a last protest before it kindled into flame. Settling back down, picking up the leather bound book (he sincerely hoped it was merely leather, and not some sort of reptilian skin—the scaly look of it did nothing to ease that worry), Agronak gave Morag a friendly pat. Opening one age-clouded eye, the dog sighed heavily in response before resuming his demanding schedule of intermittent naps.

It was a beautiful day, clear and fresh, the kind equally at home in spring or fall—the sort of weather that warmed the cheeks while nipping at the ears. A walk would be a nice diversion, though Agronak wasn't sure where he'd walk or why. The occupants of the house were all distracted in their last minute preparations for the evening meal; Danai ordering everyone out of the kitchen on pain of strongly applied wooden spoon, Hjoldir out doing something to the grounds (Agronak had a strong suspicion that something involved watching the plants grow while puffing away on his well used pipe), and most of the family either grooming or fussing, focusing on the former unless ordered by Evie to worry about the latter. Only Alabyval remained relatively calm, holing himself up in his study with a stack of books and an air that suggested he'd brook no distractions.

Feeling about as underfoot as the hounds, Agronak had sought out a quiet spot in which to hide, not wanting to spend the morning surrounded by overly lush painted roses. Chancing upon this small room—he'd call it a library were it not for the fact every room barring the kitchen and dining room looked like a library—he'd settled himself on the comfortable bear hide in front of the fireplace with a selection of books, those he'd found written in Common, and his hasty breakfast of bread and fruit.

Morag, wandering past in search of warmth and softness, had found both stretched out along the length of his leg. So the time had passed, him skimming through the varied assortment of literature, which included everything from texts to a particularly steamy, albeit unfortunately slender, volume of erotic poetry, the pleasant sound of burning wood accompanied by the heavy snoring of the hound beside him. It was remarkable how companionable the presence of the old dog was, causing him to toy with the idea of getting one upon his return to Crowhaven. There'd never been room in his life for a pet before, especially not in the Arena. There'd been Porkchop, true, but the boar was Owyn's by rights, the blademaster so gruffly besotted with it the fighters had taken to calling it his love child—though only when safely hidden from earshot, usually at least one district away from the cantankerous Redguard.

"So that's where you've been all day. Rather clever—can't see you sitting there when walking by, hidden from view by the furniture." A brisk rub was given to Morag by way of greeting as Gondyn drew near, settling onto the old sofa Agronak had found more comfortable as a back rest than a seat. "Ria was looking for you earlier."

Offering a questioning grunt Agronak closed his current book, a ridiculous tale of a rather dense Bosmer in love with a Redguard, before turning his head to look at Gondyn. There was good natured amusement on the Breton's face, but then he perpetually seemed to wear that expression.

"She thought you might be able to help with her braids." A slight nod was given towards Agronak's hairstyle by way of explanation. "Women get so unhinged by the strangest things. Reesy sleeps in late on First Planting, you'd think Ri Ri would have learnt this by now. But every year she wears a hole in the hallway with her constant pacing."

"Why does Cerisse sleep so late today?"

"You can call her Reesy, everyone else does," Gondyn offered with a wink. Agronak's wordless reply of a skeptical glare made him chuckle. "Fine, keep her happy if you want, but it takes more than a nickname to allow her to fight back."

"Allow?" While Agronak had no doubt there were as many unwritten rules between the Hawkton siblings as any other family, the word felt out of place.

"Witch rules—don't you know them? Rather restrictive code. I certainly wouldn't sign up for it." Clearing his throat, Gondyn launched into a feminine falsetto while waving his hands up and down in a parody of magical motions. "_Visit no evil upon others, lest thee wish it thrice upon thyself. Shouldst evil be set upon thee, mete back all but a grain, so that it_...ah, well, you get the idea." Giving Agronak's shoulder a friendly pat Gondyn stood up, stretching his arms out in a welcoming gesture towards the doorway. "Reesy! Good to see you up so early. I was afraid you'd miss the sunset again."

"Dyn," came the cold reply, "Mama is looking for you. The carriage is coming up the drive and you forgot to put the wheat sheaths over the door."

"Dust of Orcrest!" Gondyn's unusual exclamation, hastily given as he ran towards the hall, brought a smile to Agronak's lips. The variety of curses in High Rock might not be colourful, but they certainly were perplexing.

After receiving Cerisse's assurances he not worry about putting the books away, Agronak followed her towards the front hall, complimenting the complicated knot of braids weaving in and out of themselves in a crown around her head. She didn't acknowledge his remarks with words, continuing in her low voiced reminders of her brother's family's names, but the hint of smile curling on her lips and the delicate hand that reached up to give the braids a reassuring pat let him know she'd heard him well enough.

Arriving in the front hall, Agronak hung back to observe the last minute preparations. Cerisse was unceremoniously grabbed by Ria with a command to inspect for stray hairs trying to escape her woven arrangement of braids, a similar style to her sister's. Gondyn hastily worked to secure a cluster of wheat, tied in the middle with a bright green ribbon, above the doorway while Evie alternately scolded, fretted, and critiqued his hanging technique. Alabyval caught Agronak's eye and gave him a rueful smile, establishing that this sort of low key chaos was a commonplace occurrence.

Morag's gruff bark, taken up by Dar, was the note which signaled the end of the fussing. In a swift movement Gondyn patted the arrangement into place on the hook, hopped off the borrowed chair and swept it into place against the wall. Evie pulled open the door, unleashing a chorus of greeting upon her eldest son and his family as they stood on the threshold.

An unusual ritual followed, one Agronak attributed to the day's celebrations. In turn each member offered a small grouse egg to Evie before touching the door frame, exclaiming _zot_ (enthusiastically in the case of the children, subtly by the parents), then entering to a whirlwind of hugs. As they were swept around in a circle of welcome, he politely greeted Rodyrick (Cerisse's eldest brother), Cyovta (his Yokudan wife), and Lara and Elyn (their children).

As if it wasn't crowded enough, Hjoldir appeared to begin directing the visiting driver about the arrangements of the luggage. Hanging back to let the family have their initial visit, Agronak remained a mute observer, occasionally able to make out snippets of talk as they all spoke together; Evie giving a flurry of instructions about the rooms, Alabyval chatting amiably in a foreign tongue with his eldest son, Cyovta graciously admiring Ria's hair, Elyn's shrieks of laughter as he was held upside down by Gondyn, and Cerisse calmly correcting Lara's mistaken use of the name _Auntie Reesy_.

Pulled from his quiet vantage point, tugged by a warm hand further into the familial circle, Cerisse gave Agronak a proper introduction to Lara, who struck him as a somewhat serious child, a couple of years older than her laughing brother. She studied him blatantly, green eyes peering up from amber skin, a striking combination of her blended parentage.

"Orcs aren't grey," Lara stated with finality, having come to some internal conclusion. "So what are you?"

Brushing off Cerisse's protests about the rudeness of the question, Agronak answered with a forced gravity to matched the tone of the question, trying not to chuckle. "I'm an Orcperial."

"A what?" It was Cerisse's turn to hide her amusement, smile tucked away in the corner of her mouth.

"I'm half Orc, half Imperial," he explained to both of them.

"Half Orc," Lara murmured, contemplating the answer. The interruption of Elyn, his constant clamour for the attentions of Auntie Reesy meriting Lara's bossy reprimand that it was Auntie _Cerisse_, halted any further discussion about bloodlines.

"Auntie Cerisse, where's the whilloken?" Elyn's question shattered Lara's gravity, the girl's face lighting up with excitement. Joining the continuous requests for the whilloken, they both pleaded with Cerisse to produce one.

After receiving promises they would be gentle, Cerisse reached her hands out into the air to pantomime a search, plucking and discarding imaginary creatures with little comments about them being too small or too big. With a wide smile she cupped her hands and brought them in to her face, soft whisper of magic producing a glowing ball of light and corresponding shiver down Agronak's spine. Entrusting the spell into Elyn's waiting hands, the children walked off, excitedly discussing which game to start first with their new playmate.

"Quite the imagination," Agronak commented once they were out of earshot. "There isn't much you can do with a light spell."

"You're right, there isn't." The answer came with another tucked away smile of amusement, some further meaning hidden behind her words.

The disposition of luggage and lodgings completed, Evie herded everyone into more comfortable quarters in the salon (which Agronak previously mistook as the library proper, what with the walls completely covered in built-in bookshelves). Over light snacks and lighter conversation he learnt more about Rodyrick, or Roddy as his family referred to him.

The leader of Tamborne, ancestral city passed on from Evie's side of the family, Rodyrick had taken Alabyval's place as ruler—though by law and custom, Evie was still technically guardian of the inhabitants, her son merely acting in her stead. As the talk turned to updates about the city—troubles, plans, and achievements being discussed—Agronak grew further interested in the conversation. It was one thing to be placed in charge of running a town; he was finding it something else entirely to do it.

Movement in the doorway caught his eye, the giggling figures of Lara and Elyn a blur as they ran past, seeking out a place to hide. Agronak's musings about the active imagination of the young turned into stunned confusion when the small ball of light flitted into view, illuminating the hallway while moving in a bobbing fashion that made it look as though it was _seeking_ its quarry.

"Whilloken are not light spells," Cerisse spoke softly, having caught sight of his perplexed gaze. "_Whilloken_ is the Yokudan name for fae."

Before Agronak could press for further clarification Evie stood hastily, exclaiming about the lateness of the hour. That seemed to be the cue for the adults to begin...something, he wasn't entirely sure what. Cerisse headed off in search of the hiding children and wandering whilloken while Rodyrick and Alabyval left for the study to better discuss Tamborne business.

A less than subtle nudge from Gondyn sent Ria closer to Agronak, wearing a bright grin as she asked which he preferred—painting, or flowers. Not understanding the context of the question he hedged, suspicions flaring. There was certainly some conspiracy at work between the siblings.

"Well, I can help you with your wreath," Ria offered. "I'm very good at decorating them."

"I'm fine, really. No need for a wreath," Agronak answered, rising from his seat on the delicate wooden chair—a spot he'd chosen merely because none other had been available, spending the entire time carefully distributing his weight on his legs while worrying he'd crush the furniture.

"Of course you need one. Everyone must have a wreath." Gondyn added from his resting place, lounging indolently against the shelves. "Ri Ri—_Ria_, sorry—is an expert at fiddling with them. She'll get you set up with a fabulous one."

There it was again, that little eyebrow wiggle of his, an omen Agronak had come to distrust. The innocent smirk on the young man's face, green eyes twinkling with merry amusement, boded no good. Not that it portended doom, but generally it meant some sort of mischief lay in store.

"Fabulous if you like flowers," Cerisse cut in, giving her siblings suspicious looks as she herded in the rogue children, "lots and lots of very feminine flowers. I'd suggest you decorate your own."

"Aren't you going to paint your pot first?" Elyn asked. The glowing whilloken had settled into his curly hair, looking very much like a tired pup gone to sleep in a nest of ragged blankets. Mentally shaking his head Agronak tried to remind himself that light spells, even ones with a Yokudan name, did _not_ nap, no matter how odd the magic.

"I'm not much of a painter." Agronak replied. Anything smaller than a brush for use with whitewash or a canvas tinier than a wall and he found himself all thumbs. That gentlemanly pursuit in the leisure hours was one he'd quickly abandoned, despite having heard it was normally a natural talent for fighters to possess. Apparently most guild halls had painting clubs formed by its members, influenced by Master Oreyn's love for the hobby.

That wasn't an acceptable excuse to offer. Between the chatter of the children, Evie's attempts at organization, and his guess it would be easier to work with plants than paint, Agronak ended up in the group of those who would make up the wreaths. Elyn's gracious offer to paint a pot in his honour was accepted with a small measure of relief.

Still unsure why he needed a circle of dry plants or a claimed clay pot, Agronak followed Cerisse into the library—the last room he'd guessed would earn the title, adorned with naught but two tall bookshelves, locked glass covers preventing easy access to the books. A round table in the centre of the room held an assortment of dried flowers arranged in vases, small bundles of wheat stacked up in a precarious pile. Mystified by the various pins and ribbons also present, Agronak ignored them in search of something much more pertinent—a strong chair.

The only drawback in claiming a seat first was it left him at the whims of the others. Ria took the spot to his left after what he thought was a small lurch caused by a hasty shove from Gondyn. Keeping a watchful eye on her siblings, Cerisse settled to his right, picking through the wheat, comparing them to each other with a practiced eye. With exaggerated manners Gondyn escorted Lara to the table, putting on a small show as he pulled out a chair for her.

It wasn't until Cerisse placed one of the braided wreaths on his head did Agronak understand they weren't for décor so much as dress. Protesting that he didn't wear food, he was quickly inundated with explanations from the others at the table as to why he had no say in the matter. As the various Breton customs associated with First Planting were told from all directions—half myth, half ritual—Ria showed him how to place and pin flowers into the wreath using the thin copper pins available.

It was a definite departure from the habits of Cyrodiil, the holiday there celebrated much as the others, with drinking, feasting, and dancing. Here it had a much more solemn undertone, laced with religious import and fertility symbols. The custom of bestowing eggs as greeting by visitors was said to be a way of showing the gift of friendship would likewise hatch and grow. No explanation of _zot_ was offered.

Even the various flowers on the table were said to represent some aspect of the new season—everything from hope for a bountiful harvest to forgiveness for past sins apparently present in the dry petals. Seeing no way around it, he became more willing to participate when he understood they'd be making similar headgear for those missing from the table. With too much to remember, Agronak decided to simply put one of each flower into his wreath, just to cover his luck.

Lara, having already finished decorating a small circle for her brother, stared at Agronak from across the table. With lips pursed in a studious expression, she finally spoke. "The top half."

"Excuse me?" he asked while trying to somehow handle a slippery pin, a delicate black rose threatening to crumble into dust, and the braided wheat at the same time.

"If you're half Orc, it must be the top half, because you're so big." Her explanation resulted in the accidental crushing of the rose, victim of his sudden amusement. The other adults at the table were laughing just as hard at Lara's carefully thought out pronouncement, the poor child completely confused as to what they found so funny.

Reaching for another rose necessitated stretching an arm above Cerisse's work. Seizing the opportunity, Agronak bent his head towards her and whispered, making sure no one else could hear him. "Other half's just as big."

With a startled noise, somewhere between a mewl and a shriek, Cerisse dropped her wreath to the table, hands flying up before stilling themselves. Glancing furtively around, her face now a brilliant scarlet, she began to cough—albeit in an odd, garbled fashion. Still making that sporadic hiccup of a cough she stood up and quickly walked out of the room, managing to murmur about water during her brisk trek to the doorway.

Catching Gondyn's highly confused expression, Agronak fought to suppress his grin as he offered a simple explanation. "Hawkton women," he stated with a mild shrug.

"Ah." The subtle nod conveyed complete understanding—at least, on the part of the young man. The remaining ladies at the table were still oblivious, exchanging darting looks that suggested it was the males who were crazy .


	14. The Holidays of Spring: First Planting

"It's perfect," Agronak offered, nodding towards the strangely decorated clay pot marking his seat at the table. At some point Evie must have caught the mistake, having Elyn correct Agrynak into Agronak—though the effect of the O over the Y made his name look much more like Agrgnak than anything else. A green stick and a tufted splash of yellow were the other adornments painstakingly painted on—he had even less of an idea what they represented than why he needed a pot (filled with dirt, by the looks of it) in the first place.

"That's your sword 'cause you're _ra gada_," Elyn stated proudly, pointing towards the slash of green. "And a crown 'cause you're _no shira_."

Even more confused by the explanation, Agronak settled for a polite nod and attentive expression. Cyovta smiled at him, fingers gently smoothing her son's wayward ebony curls.

"_Ra gada_—warrior, _no shira_—noble. Your village is lucky to have a _ra gada no shira_ as lord. It brings great honour to your people." She spoke with a cultured dignity, everything about her suggestive of an innate poise and elegance—from the crisp folds of her gown to the straight curtain of black hair, snipped with precision to fall in a perfect fringe of bangs and shoulder sweeping lengths.

It brought to mind the ingrained confidence excellent warriors in the Arena possessed, usually matured by the time they reached the champion level. But unlike them he had a feeling she was always this way—not a developed trait, but a quirk of personality since birth. The thought of living under the perpetually serene gaze of those khol-lined eyes was a little intimidating. He'd always prefer a woman who made him comfortable behind closed doors, rather than one he would feel he had to live up to.

Agronak's musing on the quality of life with the happily married Yokudan halted with the commencement of dinner. Or rather, the commencement of the dinner rituals. It started with a brief prayer—a typical offering of thanks and worship to the Gods in hopes for a bountiful season—before each member donned their adorned wreath. The men at the table all wore similar ones, a sparse sprinkling of flowers set amidst the pale wheat, but those of the ladies were much more varied.

Of them all Ria's was the most elaborate: a symmetrical crown of flowers, the wheat almost more of an accent than a base, garnished with trailing ribbons, brilliant coloured strands fluttering from complicated bows. While it was certainly feminine, and she had somehow managed to turn a bunch of dried plants into a flattering accessory, he had to admit that he much preferred the simply decorated wreath Cerisse had created.

The contrast between the black roses and blonde wheat, accented with a simple bow of emerald green silk tied towards the back, drew his attention. At least, he told himself that was the reason he kept glancing at her. Well, that, and the way she kept avoiding his eyes, having done so ever since she'd returned from her 'coughing' fit earlier that afternoon still flushed, but much calmer in demeanor.

It was a relief to have her back. After a small jerk, which Agronak strongly suspected was a reaction to either a pinch or light kick from her brother, Ria had begun her less than subtle flirtations once Cerisse had left the room. Somewhere between the lopsided chewing of her lip, which had brought to mind the absurd concept of a nervous one fanged vampire, and the subtle prompts of her brother that always seemed to precede her affections, Agronak garnered the distinct impression she really wasn't after him. She was, however, trying to give the illusion of pursuing him—at least, so long as Cerisse wasn't around. It was a perplexing riddle he hadn't yet deciphered. Either way, he still didn't want to be alone around her much, especially not since Gondyn seemed to have a hand in the plan. That notion did nothing to soothe his worries. In fact, Gondyn's involvement made Agronak want to brace himself for nothing short of an all out siege.

The first course was served, a salad of bitter, early leaves Evie told him represented the mistakes of the past year—a symbolic form of edible atonement. Fortunately the portions were sparse. The next course, a complicated soup made from a variety of roots , carefully held over all winter, was much tastier. Probably because it wasn't another form of punishment, but rather the start of the celebratory meal; the soup being a reminder of past blessings and bounty.

As the meal grew in quantity and flavour, so too did the talk around the table grow in volume and good humour. By the time the main course made its appearance—the earliest of spring vegetables (a taste of things to come), a hearty serving of beans(in honour of the tale of Arkay and the stablehand), and light, crusty bread (which allegedly had something to do with the sun, but Agronak suspected had more to do with providing a method to sop up the sauce)—the discussions turned into a friendly game.

Listening in, he quickly deciphered the loose rules. It was a contest to stump Alabyval that everyone could play, the challenger giving a word and the language it was to be translated into. The only catch was you had to know the answer yourself before asking the question. Alabyval had already disqualified Gondyn for asking for the Argonian version of 'tiger.' It had stumped both of them, and once it was established there was no known answer amongst the guests Alabyval had become very excited, threatening to start in on an interminable monologue on the potential translation. It was only through thinly veiled threats from the opposite end of the table—Evie not about to let the festivities turn into a lecture—as well as the light hearted teasing from the rest of his family had Alabyval finally relented, beginning the game again with a simple challenge from Lara for 'snow' in Aldmeris.

In between Evie's explanation on the importance of the meal being meatless, even so far as to be prepared without milk or eggs, Agronak listened to the remarkable variety of languages being bandied about. Cerisse had just finished a quick duel of words in Ta'agra, trying to trip up her father with some of the more obscure vocabulary from her recent readings, when Cyovta attempted to win with some difficult words to be turned into Yokudan, her native tongue. But the game was not to be won so easily, Alabyval fending them off after a bit of memory searching. During a small lull in the conversation, a contented pause of satiated appetites, Agronak decided to give it a try.

Abandoning any thought of asking for something in Orcish, or even Dunmeris, he tried to think of any of the words he knew in foreign tongues that didn't have inappropriate translations, the Common versions being words he certainly didn't wish to teach the children. Finally clicking on one he'd heard too much of during a strange span of time—a matter of days that felt like eternity—he nodded down to the cheerful Breton. "I've got one you might not know. _Outsider_, or _outcast_ if you prefer."

"What language?" Alabyval asked, clearly intrigued by the new challenger. His children were all busy offering suggestions of tongues to avoid, certain their father would know the answer.

"Daedric," Agronak replied.

A flurry of whispers followed, like a whirlwind through fall leaves, excitement amongst the siblings palpable. Shaking away the curious musings that he spoke Daedric—which he didn't—Agronak returned to his previous discussion with Evie about the evening meal. The last course was served, a decadent hand rolled pastry filled with spiced nuts, carefully coiled into the shape of a bird's nest, then sweetened with a honey syrup and sprinkled with candied flowers. The dessert was a celebration of the sweetness of a new beginning—the old business of the past year left behind, the potential of a fresh start stretching out in the year ahead.

As fork-cleaned plates lay empty upon the table, all eyes turned towards Alabyval, expectation lying thick in the air. He'd been musing to himself, occasionally conjugating verbs and mumbling phrases as he struggled to come up with an answer. From what Agronak could gather the game finished with the meal, the lone morsel of pastry sitting on Alabyval's plate the only thing preventing its conclusion.

"_Gra'ravi_, tell him the word." Lara's whispered encouragement was loud enough to be heard by all. Gondyn repeated it glibly while trying to steal the remaining piece of dessert with his fork. Fending off his youngest son with his silverware, Alabyval fell for the ruse, Rodyrick quickly darting in his hand to steal the obstinate morsel and ensure its destruction with a well-timed bite. Judging by their coordinated efforts this wasn't the first time he'd stalled with his food.

"I sure hope you have an answer for us, Agronak, because I don't," Alabyval finally admitted, hands waving down his family's friendly jeers at the announcement. "Tell us, what is the Daedric word for outsider?"

"_Nikyn_." The answer was given with his best attempt at the strange metallic growl of a dremora. It was comfortable enough to mock their odd voices surrounded by good friends and fine ale, a pastime he'd indulged in as a sort of therapy after the intense battle at Bruma, but it still wasn't a language he wished to think of when alone.

"Of course!" Alabyval exclaimed, tossing his napkin onto the table. "_Not kin_, or more accurately _not us_. With a grammar structure that mimics the rigidity of their caste system, their compound words can almost be predicted. If you examine the uses of the word _kyn_, you'd find that-"

"Dear," Evie interrupted, her soft bark halting the start of a lecture mid-sentence. "Please don't make me use up my wish before I plant it."

"Ah, yes, the wishes." Gentle prods with his cane into the wiry fur of Dar eventually stirred the sleeping hound from his spot beside Alabyval's chair, allowing the man to rise with a soft grunt as age-worn joints lamented their renewed use. Limping somewhat stiffly at first, he left the room, the staccato rhythm of the tip of his cane a counter-beat to his footfalls.

The family remained seated, chatter springing up amongst them as they waited Alabyval's return. Answering Cyovta's question as to where he'd learnt Daedric, Agronak caught Ria's hastily whispered conversation with her mother. The tense young woman, who'd spent the meal nibbling on her lip almost as much as her food, didn't seem to take much comfort from Evie's repeated placations that _he'll be here soon_.

Alabyval, however, did return soon, carrying a small handled bowl that rattled with each step. Lara and Elyn promptly began arguing over whose turn it was to bestow the wishes, the argument ended by the decisive proclamation of their father that Lara would have the honour this year. Eagerly bouncing out of her seat, she ran to wait beside her grandfather's chair.

Amidst the helpful calls of her aunts and uncles, she solemnly carried the silver vessel, rimmed with a pattern of vines and berries, towards the only guest. Unsure what he was supposed to do, Lara whispered that Agronak needed to choose one of the small speckled beans currently rolling around in the bottom. Plucking the least wrinkled one, earning a surprised look from Lara at his decision, he watched as she moved back to Alabyval.

It seemed to be offered by age amongst the family, Lara working her way down the generations. Tongues loosened by good food and fine company, they gently teased each other, jokes being fashioned from long ago memories. They conjured ghosts of past selves to flit about in his imagination—Evie as a child, accidentally catching her ribbons on fire by leaning too near a candle; Cerisse fighting with her sister Wynny over the bowl, the beans flying onto the floor; a very young Gondyn trying to convince a dog to help him get his wish, bursting into inconsolable tears when the treacherous hound ate it instead.

At last all had chosen but Cerisse and Lara. The child, after intense concentration, finally made her decision. With no others to choose from, Cerisse gladly accepted the sole remaining bean, Gondyn taking the opportunity to explain this method was to keep her from cheating with her _witch magic_.

Evie, noting his hesitancy, instructed Agronak to plant his bean into his pot while making a wish at the same time. Before doing so he glanced around the table, amused by the various methods the others were employing. Ria's eyes were closed, both hands clutching her little bean close to her heart, lips moving in a silent prayer. Rodyrick, by contrast, popped his into his pot without ceremony.

Fingers poised above the dirt, regally ensconced in his majestically decorated pot, it occurred to Agronak he wasn't entirely sure what to wish for. So many of his dreams had already come true—success in the Arena, the recognition of his heritage, the inheritance of his village. Wishing for more money seemed somehow too base for an occasion like this, nestled as he was in the warm glow of a happy family.

Grin tugging at his lips, he pushed the black spotted bean into the earth, a very simple wish guiding it down. It was frivolous, fanciful, and yet sincere. There were many things he could wish for to occur in his life, but as he sat here amongst the love and history at the table, he knew there was one thing no amount of gold or fame would ever bring him.

_This_.

* * *

There was no question about it—Ria adored him completely. Hanging onto every word, soft eyes sending secret messages of warm places and waiting arms, it was blatantly obvious how she really felt.

He appeared to feel the same way; his well-practiced speech given to all, clearly meant for her. Grace, beauty, devotion—a discussion of ideals masking a poorly coded love letter.

It was so sickly sweet, Agronak had the sudden urge to lick a block of salt. Probably not the effect the Priest intended with his sermon about the coming year, and his prayers for the blessings of Dibella. Strange that She was the only one of the Nine being mentioned—the temples in Cyrodiil were devoted to a specific deity, but they all shared the same ideology. Rarely did it translate into such a strongly worded statement about the divinity of one Goddess compared to the others.

The small pots, each cradling a secret hope in the form of a wrinkled little bean, were pronounced blessed amidst the moonlight and cloying clouds of incense. The night air was unfortunately still, the perfumed smoke of the braziers unmoving as it hung thickly around his face. A small headache threatened to be the first thing of the new season to bloom.

Grateful for an opportunity to change position on the terrace, Agronak edged behind Cyovta in a bid for fresher air as Ria exchanged places with the Priest of Dibella, another poorly hidden wordless exchange passing between them. Finding a relatively fragrance free spot, he tried to get comfortable as he wondered how much longer the ceremony would last. It hadn't been fully explained, but it was easy enough to guess at its origins. The swollen form of Masser filled the sky, lighting the night in a brilliant glow, while Secunda was nowhere to be found. Little wonder someone in the distant ages had decided to take things outside. At least they didn't have to dance around under the moon—some of the ancient superstitions could be so ridiculous.

Trailing ribbons vibrating as she cleared her throat, Ria waited for her unspoken demand of attention to bring all eyes to her. Everard's surely were, though Agronak couldn't see to confirm his guess, blocked as he was by the man's mass of blonde curls as he chose to stand smack dab in the middle of his view. His head sure was large when seen from behind, nothing at all visible of Ria or the small table pressed into service as a makeshift altar. Hemmed in by the irritating incense, Agronak decided to listen with a clear mind rather than watch with a pained one.

The first pure notes of the melody surprised him in their clarity, Ria's voice having the quality of a finely tuned instrument. He'd never suspected her to possess such talent, a calibre he felt rivaled that of the celebrated singers in the Imperial City. Transfixed by the sound, he enjoyed it as the hymn pulled old associations from his mind. Standing in the temple as a small child, watching his mother's intense concentration as the priest intoned his prayers; sitting in the corner of the Feed Bag, captivated as an old bard, long of hair and short of coin, sang a song of separated lovers with such feeling it brought unbidden dampness to his eyes; listening to the thin voice of a skittish Bosmer awaiting her first match, calming herself with nervous strains of an ancient lullaby.

The desire to applaud vanished as he observed the others bowing their heads in silent prayer. Unsure who he was supposed to be supplicating, Agronak's mind wandered, musing over the rabid affections of Ria towards her pretty priest.

The bold knock, intruding on the idle chatter after dinner, had prompted a comical flurry of activity from her. In between harried questions if her hair was still in place, and harsh commands that _nobody else_ should answer the door, she'd almost knocked Elyn over in her rush to the hallway. Maybe he should offer a prayer of safety on the young priest's behalf.

While a relief to know Ria hadn't been serious in her earlier flirtations, it did beg the question of why she'd done it, and what role Gondyn had in it all. The motive of the young man's perpetual pushing of his sister in Agronak's direction remained a mystery. Had he done it just to tease? Perhaps. He must have known there wasn't any possibility of something developing between Agronak and Ria. The Breton appeared fond of mischief, but didn't seem to be malicious.

Had he really been so unsubtle in his reactions to Ria's flirtations? Probably, or why else would Gondyn insist she keep up the charade? If not for his own amusement, there hadn't been anything accomplished other than Agronak's determination to stay away from her. He felt sure he got along well enough with Gondyn that the man hadn't been trying to drive him out of his home. So what purpose would it serve to use Ria to push him away? Unless they were trying to push him towards something...

The sweet ringing of the small silver bell held by Everard served as a bright herald of the new season, marking midnight as the beginning of a new day. With the completion of the ceremony the family slowly began to break up; Rodyrick and Cyovta herding their tired children off to bed, Evie fussing along after them; Ria silently stalking around the edges of conversation as Alabyval and Gondyn paid their respects to the priest, waiting for them to depart before pouncing; Cerisse earning a perplexing command from Evie to not tarry on her way home as she headed towards the barn.

Politely bidding goodnight to the group, he jogged to catch up with Cerisse, wanting to discuss the plans for tomorrow. She'd mentioned they'd be journeying to Tamborne, but he wasn't sure when they'd be leaving. Ria and Gondyn would also be traveling to the city, rideing in Rodyrick's carriage, and he wanted to know if they'd all be cramming into the confined space. Large as it was, it didn't appear big enough for six adults and two children.

He found her in the barn, busy unbridling a spotted mare, the horse sedately standing in the middle of the hay-strewn floor, patiently allowing her to work. She moved with haste, her wreath flung off into a pile of straw, her hands unbuckling at top speed.

"Here, hold onto this," Cerisse commanded once she noticed Agronak, indicating for him to grab the saddle before it slipped off to the side. Her exasperation came out in peevish mutters, each one accompanying another fastened latch. "Hjoldir was supposed to do this. Hours ago. But it seems he forgot. Again." she growled.

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow-"

"There!" Her triumphant exclamation as the saddle came free, the horse finally unfettered, cut off his questions. She whispered something he couldn't understand, her voice so faint the words were inaudible, before she leapt onto the mare's bare back in one remarkable hop. "Can you ride?" she suddenly asked, perched high up above him. Her impatience seemed to be shared by her horse, the animal shifting from one hoof to the other, eager to depart now Cerisse was ready.

"Of course, why?"

"We ride to Tamborne tomorrow afternoon," she answered, calloused heels nudging the mottled white mare towards the barn door.

"Wait," he called out, "where are you going?"

"Tamarilyn. I'll be back after dawn." The reply was tossed over her shoulder as the horse trotted away, leaving Agronak in the middle of the paddocks, wondering where he should put the old leather saddle still in his hands.

* * *

A sneaky shaft of sunlight, fighting its way through the thin crack in the curtains, mounted an aggressive assault on his eyes. Victorious in its quest to vanquish the last foggy remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to his mind, Agronak awoke feeling refreshed in spite of his late night. Finishing his packing as he dressed, carefully searching amongst the books under the watchful guard of perpetually blooming roses, he made sure he left nothing behind.

With the exception of Cerisse the household was already awake, grabbing bites of breakfast in between debates about luggage, seating arrangements, and what time to leave. Ria's loud protests about the vital necessity of her large trunk were firmly countered with Rodyrick's insistence that nobody needed so many changes of clothes for a week long stay.

Grabbing a plate from the simple buffet laid out in the kitchen, Agronak was greeted with a surly grunt by Elyn. It took Lara's helpful translation to explain that her brother's was put out because Agronak's bean had sprouted first, a tiny pale shoot poking out from its cradle of dirt. Elyn's annoyance stemmed from the fact he wouldn't get his wish, since Agronak's wish would come true.

He attempted to mollify the petulant boy by telling him it must have been his masterful artwork that had encouraged the bean to grow. By the time Evie came back to the kitchen, a whirlwind of gentle instructions being issued to anyone who passed by, Elyn was convinced he'd done magic, eagerly tugging his grandmother's hand as he expounded on the arcane symbolism behind the pot's illustrations.

Trying to stay out of the way, Agronak assisted where he could until the carriage was finally loaded, his bag securely tucked away to ride on ahead of him. There wasn't much in it he'd be upset at losing—his finest clothes stolen, his money already gone, the only thing it contained besides his functional wardrobe and basic toiletries was the irritatingly useful Telvanni salve.

Somehow convinced by Evie to carry a crate back into the house, he ran across Ria in the upstairs hallway. Choosing to test his theory, he leaned into her as she passed by, giving her an overly friendly wink as he complimented her dress. The flash of panic his words brought to her face confirmed his suspicions; the way she scuttled off amused him greatly. Seems she wasn't the only one who could play that game.

Goodbyes were exchanged, the family circling around amongst themselves until they'd shared farewells with each other twice over. Agronak stood on the porch, waving off the carriage in the company of Evie and Alabyval. Dar chased after it, barking until he reached the hedge that marked the edge of the property. They stood in silence, watching as the small clouds of dust on the road settled back to the ground. Evie finally broke off with a sniff, murmuring something about needing to write to her married daughters and convince them to bring the families for a visit.

Invited by Alabyval to join him in his study, Agronak accepted. They conversed in Orcish—fluent on the Breton's part, mangled on his side. Nestled comfortably in a room filled with the scent of dry parchment and saturated in sunshine, they spoke of Cyrodiil, Alabyval curious about the changes time had brought to the province since his last visit so many years ago.

The discussion somehow turned to languages, Alabyval speaking with passion about the grammatical similarities between Common and Orcish. Agronak occasionally got lost with the vocabulary—the terms so obscure they meant little in either tongue—but he found it interesting. This wasn't a dry musing about verb conjugation, but a fascinating journey through history, detailing the way armies and the pursuit of gold had shaped each language.

When Cerisse finally appeared in the doorway, dark smudges under her weary eyes, Agronak didn't wish to leave. But the horses were waiting, everything prepared for their journey, so he regretfully nudged Morag from his awkward spot draped over his shoes and followed her out to the hall.

With promises to write, thanks for their hospitality, and invites for them to visit Crowhaven should fortune ever bring them to Cyrodiil, Agronak took his leave of Evie and Alabyval. He waved back at them, twisted around in the saddle, surprised at the slightly bittersweet parting. After living in the maelstrom of the Hawkton family, he hadn't suspected he'd miss the chaos, but he might—just a little.

Leaving Cerisse be, occasionally checking to make sure she hadn't fallen asleep on the chestnut stallion, he let his thoughts drift while enjoying the day. The wakening world was saturated with the brilliant sunlight, a dazzling display of colours—clear turquoise overhead, vibrant emerald dotting the branches of the overhanging trees, crimson wildflowers blossoming beside the dry earthen road—stirred an excitement in his heart, precursors of long days and lush harvests. There were so many plans he had for Crowhaven...

Distracted by the future, he lost track of the present, brought back to it with a start when Cerisse suddenly guided her horse close, offering out three little bags. "Your stones. I stopped to get them this morning."

He thanked her, unsure what he would do with some magically charged rocks. As he tucked them into a pocket, she began speaking again, instructing him on how to meditate with his stones—a task he didn't feel much like undertaking, at least not at present. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to cover an escaping yawn.

"Wild night?" he asked. He couldn't begin to imagine what went on in a witches' coven.

She shook her head, giving him a smile. "No, too much dancing. Last night was perfect." She paused, trying to stifle another yawn. "You didn't seem very familiar with First Planting. Don't they celebrate it in Cyrodiil?"

"Not like that." He explained the differences—the rich feast of whatever the cook felt like making, the free-flowing ale, the carousing, and the general lack of visiting clergy. "Does Everard live nearby?"

She nodded, head bobbing deeply with fatigue. "The chapel in Tamborne. He always comes for festivals—you can probably guess why."

Agronak snorted to himself, now certain where Ria's heart lay. That small worry he'd carried since overhearing the hasty conversation dissolved into relief—and then into confusion. "How long has Ria hunted him?"

"You make him sound like defenseless prey," Cerisse said. "Ria's the one we were worried about. I'm sure you know what they say about Hawkton women."

When he couldn't connect what their alleged insanity had to do with the romantic motives of a Priest of Dibella, Agronak finally broke down and asked Cerisse for clarification.

"They didn't tell you? Must not have had the time," she remarked bitterly. "There's a poem, written by some scoundrel when Wynny was at court. She didn't take it very well." Shifting in her seat, eyes narrowing, Cerisse recalled the insult. "It discusses the humiliating ways a poor lord can earn some gold—from chopping wood to selling his body—before finishing with: _If all else fails there's a last resort, simply take a trip to Hawkton Court,_" she finished quietly, her expression stony.

"I don't understand."

"It means we're only worth our gold," she answered. Blinking at his confusion, she continued in surprise. "You didn't know? The Hawktons are one of the richest families in High Rock. We've no political standing in Wayrest, but we're worth more than the lot of them put together. Quite ironic, really."

"How can that be?" he asked in bewilderment. The comfortable standards of their home certainly didn't betray this alleged fortune.

"Frostfire, you really had no idea, did you?" Cerisse blinked in genuine surprise.

"Well, the house was lovely, but it wasn't a castle..." he offered. She snickered at that, patting the head of her horse as if sharing a joke.

"If you judge by appearances here, you'll end up all turned around. The courtiers live on credit and breeding. They might not have a coin to their name, but can still order anything they like. There's always some merchant willing to risk a loss if he can sell to society." She gave him a congenial smile. "One of the reasons we have gold, but no clout, is because we don't try to live like them. No point eating off silver when clay does the same job."

"What do the Hawktons do?" The source of their wealth intrigued him.

"That's just it—they _do_." The answer came as she leaned towards him, sharing an open secret. "We farm, we buy and sell, we work with foreigners and marry merchants. Completely scandalous. But it's the rent they envy the most. Where they buy country estates, or whole cities, we buy shops and houses. This way it doesn't matter who owns the town—we get paid the rent."

Agronak absorbed this, mentally remarking it sounded like a smart financial plan. "What happened with Wynny?"

Looking up towards the sky she let out a soft sigh. "She fell in love. So did he, but that didn't matter to them. He was from a good family with no gold, and she was...she was a Hawkton. They've been married almost six years, very happily living in Daggerfall." Glancing back over to him, her voice softened. "That's why we were concerned when Everard met Ria. Our sources think he's genuinely in love with her. I pray to the Goddesses he is, because she's fallen hard."

"Hmm," he murmured, pondering this information. "So, then who is Eddy?"

Cerisse's reaction shocked him, all colour draining from her face, leaving her freckles as stark contrast in a sickly field of cream. Nudging his horse closer, he prepared to catch her if she fainted, but her recovery was remarkable. With a bright smile, she answered in such a normal voice he questioned his eyes. "I don't know. There are so many Bretons who go by that name. Whoever he is, he's nothing special to Ria."

Their conversation fell off, lost to Cerisse's musings and Agronak's observations. She was somewhere far away, whatever currently occupying her mind had certainly woken her up.


	15. A Note on the Merchant Class

"Bloody peasants. Don't they know how to dust?" the young man questioned, coughing at the cloud rising from the cover he'd roughly torn from the settee. "What are we doing here?"

"Watching," Theodyrick answered, waving away the tiny particles trying to float up his nose. The carriage ride had been bumpy, the sea rough, and now he discovered his chamberlain had _not_ gotten his note. All he wanted was a stiff drink, a soft chair, and a bit of quiet. What he_ got was _an unprepared house, musty furniture, and irritating company.

"Yes, but what am I doing here?" Edwistyr asked peevishly, smacking the upholstered seat with his hand, another torrent of disuse billowing into the air. "Watch all the phantoms you want. I've got better things to do."

"I hadn't heard," Theodyrick replied dryly, "that you called your ladies _things_. Is it a new term?"

His cousin growled, snatching up a cushion and giving it a solid thwack in Theodyrick's direction. Much as he'd love to be alone, he needed Edwistyr at hand. If there was something to find—despite the haughty assurances there wasn't—he couldn't risk the delay in contacting Wayrest for more information. The young man could idle just as well here as at court. Hopefully.

"Gods, there isn't even any wood for a fire. Forget it, I'm off." Waving away Theodyrick's squawks of protest, Edwistyr strode towards the door. "I will not rot in this pit. If I've got to stay in one, I'll make it golden. In Vanshire."

"But it's half a day away!" Hustling towards the opening door, Theodyrick managed to slam it shut, earning a dark glare in return. "How do you think you'll get there?"

"In your carriage. I'll send it back," Edwistyr answered, pulling the door open with a sharp tug, "eventually."

Not wanting to get into a fight, Theodyrick let the impetuous man go. While it wasn't quite as close as he wanted, it was still easier to find him here than at home in Wayrest. Days could pass without Edwistyr's head touching his pillow—not that it wasn't touching someone else's. At least this way Theodyrick knew the inn—the Gold Pit—and it was normally simple to find a stranger in a city. Also, there was the possibility if his staff cleaned the house, he might be able to lure his cousin back. Not that he necessarily wanted to.

Left alone in cold quiet, he felt the tension of the journey begin to ease off, hastened by the departure of a walking cloud of annoyance. Grim smile playing at his lips, Theodyrick set to work, tugging off covers in smooth pulls, careful to minimize the dust. One desire satisfied, he rummaged in the old hutch. There should be a bottle of pear brandy hiding in here, Ysausa's secret stash of weakness kept in case of _chills_.

Calling down blessings on the head of his absent wife, he eschewed a glass in favour of a swig direct from the bottle. The warm liqueur, overly sweet but strong enough for his purposes, sent a tingling glow into his stomach. Two wishes granted, he gave the settee a tentative kick.

Smiling happily, he sank into it, grateful for Edwistyr's hasty mishandling of his furniture. The dust already having been knocked loose, his final desire was granted.

For the first time since he'd left Wayrest, he finally felt things were looking up. Now, to watch, wait, and think.

And if that plan didn't work, he could always call upon his neighbour for help...

* * *

The isolated farms they'd passed became more frequent; fields blending into orchards, orchards butting up against corrals, corrals hemmed in by pens. Taking advantage of the bright day, the farmers surveyed their potential crops, experienced eyes seeing beyond the clumps of dirt or spindly calves to full bushels and prize bulls—divination by imagination.

Agronak waved to them, pleased when they waved back. Maybe it was because of the pleasant weather, maybe because this area had less bad history with Orcs, or perhaps it was his companion—the storm cloud of thoughts perched on a chestnut horse—and her blood ties to their lord, but the folk were welcoming.

At last Tamborne came into view, a quaint city unconstrained by walls. As a result the streets tumbled into the countryside, the foundation of new buildings already being laid out for future expansion. The architecture made greater use of stone and plaster than Wayrest, either material forming the lower levels of the buildings, the higher stories added over the years with lighter-weight wood. As their horses picked their way past groups of shopkeeper's children, playing games with ever changing rules, the city aged around them. Older dwellings, shifting on the sandy dirt, crowded together in drunken clusters, listing townhomes and butcher shops lightly angled like marooned ships washed up on cobblestone shores.

He followed Cerisse's lead down a narrow street, so densely lined with tall buildings even the strongest sunshine couldn't reach to warm the ground, the air perpetually chilled with the curse of shade. The stately row of homes on his right, built tall and thin, stopped short, replaced by a polished iron fence, islands of emerald ground cover glowing with reflected daylight just beyond it. A large gate lay open, welcoming them on their ride through the expansive yard, adorned with trees currently more concerned with growing flowers than leaves, confetti buds of palest pink and yellow decorating the short, curling branches.

Elyn and Lara, distracted in their hunting—sticks for spears, imagination for prey—ran over with loud cries of greeting, their voices shouting over the dignified groom trying to offer assurances of the utmost care for their steeds. Cerisse fended off demands of a whilloken in tribute, claiming she couldn't produce another one so soon, and the children grudgingly accepted her excuses. Acting as host and hostess, they beckoned the travelers to the door, Lara peppering them with polite questions in mimicry of adults. Was the journey nice? Would they like a drink? Should she summon the valet to take their things?

Before Agronak could reply they'd already sent their luggage in advance, the girl let out a loud _Zot!_ as she slapped the head of a squat stone statue, what looked to him like a sort of goblin, but with folded up bat wings and a tongue hanging down to his knees. She pushed open the door of the large home, leaning on it to keep it open. The unusual cry was repeated by Elyn, accompanied by a poke with the stick he still brandished.

"Halt!" The boy's command, punctuated by a threatening gesture of his makeshift spear, barred Agronak's progress into the house. "You come as foe?"

"What? No," he replied, confused by Elyn's ferocity. Whatever game this was, he hadn't played it as a child.

"Then show us your _zot_," Elyn commanded, jabbing towards the hideous little carved creature.

Agronak looked over at Cerisse, hoping for clarification. She held her amusement in the corner of her lips, leaning in to whisper the answer like a student helping a friend cheat when the tutor's back was turned. "Yokudan tradition. Mages cast a spell on the gargoyle to show they come as friend."

"What spell?" he whispered back, watching Elyn play at being a vigilant guard, his dark brown eyes staring at Agronak above a grumpy sneer that bore no real malice.

"Doesn't matter," she murmured, stepping back to let him cast. Concentrating, Agronak quietly spoke the cantrip, fingers weaving together a loose ball of fire. It exploded in a sloppy shower of sparks against the gargoyle's forehead, leaving a small dark smudge of ash behind. A firm nod of approval came from Elyn as he moved out of the way, waving Agronak in. Cerisse followed behind, a soft _zot_ escaping her lips as she grazed her fingertips over the statue's ear.

"I thought you had to cast something," Agronak whispered as they waited in the hallway, Elyn and Lara having run off in opposite directions in search of a parent. Squares of sunlight, outlined with the shadows of the windowpanes, marked the afternoon hour on the parquet floor. The low murmur of genial conversation, thick with male voices, came from somewhere down the hall.

"Not everyone can cast. Or wants to. They say _zot_ instead," she explained softly. "Magic used to be suspicious to Redguards; some of it still is. Don't worry—Cyovta follows the tradition, but doesn't share the beliefs."

Their hostess appeared from a wood paneled door, safeguarded by her miniature guard, stick pressed straight against his shoulder, feet stomping in a march. His mission accomplished, Elyn was dismissed, running off to find his sister with an enthusiastic declaration that they would finally catch a wild sylphim.

Cyovta led them up the wide staircase to their rooms. Her decorating style was almost the opposite of the elder Hawktons—minimal furnishings, one bold painting instead of dozens of smaller ones, bare wood floors polished to a bright shine, not a rug to be found. But the little touches that made it a home were still present in the lopsided vase on the end table, painted in clashing stripes of red, green, and purple, product of Lara's summer with Nana; the potted scorpion tail, carefully brought up from the Alik'r, its shiny tendrils of stiff curling leaves—black blush making them look like their namesake—overrunning the corner of a room; the carved toy tiger peeking out from under a chair, still playing a forgotten game of hide and seek.

The room in which she'd installed Agronak was spacious if small, walls a dull orange shade that matched the painting of wind-rippled desert sands above the bed. His bag awaited him atop a plain chest, but he ignored it in favour of the washbasin and mirror. After a quick splash of warm water, a glance in the glass, and some strategic sniffs to ensure he didn't reek of horse, he made his way back downstairs, following the noise to the parlour.

Gondyn greeted him warmly, taking the opportunity to introduce him to some of the assembled company. Merchants of every sort were enjoying themselves in their weekly unofficial meeting—importers, exporters, investors, and bankers sharing tall tales of financial prowess. Catching snippets of the talk, Agronak noticed how similar, yet different, it was from that of Breton nobles. Instead of love affairs and bad habits, they whispered tales of scandalous interest rates, or joked about loose repayment terms.

With a mischievous remark about finding Agronak a suitable escort, Gondyn called over a stump of a Redguard, the short man almost as thick as he was tall. After a cryptic comment about not selling himself too cheaply, he left Agronak to make small talk while going off to harass his newly arrived sister. Rather than warn the departing Breton that Cerisse didn't seem to be in the mood for such things today, he asked Choctam what sort of buying he did.

"The best," the man answered genially, his voice gruff and hoarse, reminding Agronak of the bark of an overfed old dog. "I won't waste my coin on useless trinkets like Uthane," he pointed with scorn at a tall Breton in the corner, "only quality goods for my clients. What about you? Do you buy, sell, or muck about in the middle?"

"I'm lord of a small village in Cyrodiil," Agronak replied, somewhat distracted by the way Gondyn was quickly distancing himself from Cerisse, trying not to let it look too much like a hasty retreat.

"Bah, no market for peasants. Too many of 'em already. Far too common a commodity," the Redguard sniffed, flat nostrils flaring with disdain. "What about them? They make anything besides more peasants?"

"They make...they grow wheat." Agronak answered, pulling his attention back to the fancifully dressed man. He didn't approve of the mix of silk, velvet, brocade, and suede. Though the garments did seem to be of exquisite manufacture.

"Bah," Choctam grunted with a wave of his hand, "these days flour is flour. Regrettable stuff. Dusty, clumpy, and horribly common."

Attention piqued, Agronak shook his head as he refuted the statement. "Not Crowhaven's. We plant soft gold wheat."

"Eh? Doesn't that crop fail more often than grow?" A glimmer of interest danced in the Redguard's dark eyes.

"In the Nibenay Basin it does," Agronak answered, recalling the dull tables of statistics he'd happily left behind in his study. "Too much rain, not enough daylight. But it's never failed in Crowhaven. We can plant earlier, we have more sunny days in the growing season, and the fog from the Abacean does something to it—it makes a very soft, smooth flour. Perfect for pastries."

Choctam's stubby fingers, adorned with a fat ruby, absently stroked the meaty line of his jaw. "What do your peasants do with it? Eat cake all year?"

"We sell it." Or at least, he tried to. The last couple of years he'd only been able to negotiate for the sale of a small quantity—enough to make money for his villagers, not enough to give him a profit. At least he ate like a lord, even if he still lived like an Arena rat.

"Where?" The Redguard's question was asked with exaggerated indifference. Certain he had an opportunity here, Agronak proceeded carefully, not wanting to reveal how little, and how cheaply, his village's labours sold for.

"Here and there," he lied, before revealing some truth. "There's a baker in Skingrad who buys exclusively from us."

The hand fell away, diving into a pocket to fiddle with something that made a muffled jingle. "Skingrad? I know Skingrad. My company is the exclusive importer of Tamika wines," Choctam boasted. "Did Salmo leave? He used to be a baker there—made these little things, curled up like snail shells..."

"Sweetrolls," Agronak offered, Choctam nodding in happy agreement at the name. "That's him. Makes all his sweetrolls with Crowhaven flour now."

The Redguard's mouth twitched, like he was chewing on some small piece of food. The jingling increased, continuing as he finally voiced his question. His calm affect belied the man's interest in the answer. "He has a fairly..._elite_ clientèle, doesn't he?"

"You mean the Count of Skingrad?" Agronak asked blandly. Now working to maintain a normal tone, he continued in an offhand way. "I know he only buys from Salmo. Of course, so does the Emperor. The Empress likes to serve his sweetrolls with tea."

"You said your flour doesn't have a distributor in High Rock yet?" Choctam asked, hand vacating his pocket to grab Agronak's arm, guiding him further into a corner of the room. "It's an untapped market. Think of it—quality, reputation, and scarcity. The nobles will love it. I'm hoping your village doesn't grow enough to feed the whole province?"

Pleased with Agronak's answer, he continued on, laying out a variety of bewildering proposals and terms. On the surface it sounded good, but the way the Redguard's voice kept growing with assurance, and the way he kept shaking his arm happily when emphasizing a point, Agronak was sure the deal wasn't as good as it could be. But on the other hand, it's not as though the surplus flour did much good rotting away in the granaries. Truth be told it wasn't much use for bread, too fine and soft, creating a sort of gluey yeast cake. But the desserts made with it were unsurpassed in delicacy.

Choctam pressed him to make a commitment, free hand held out in anticipation of a shake of agreement. "None of these misers would give you a gold more for it, I'm telling you. They don't even deal in foodstuffs. I'll arrange everything—shipping, marketing, packaging. You just worry about getting your peasants to grow it, and I'll worry about the rest."

"I'm not sure," Agronak stalled. "Why don't you write it down, and I'll go over the numbers-"

But the Redguard wouldn't let him finish, starting in with another tactic. "No time for that. We've got to make a deal now; I've got to sail tonight. All the way to Valenwood. It'll take weeks to get there, and then you know how Wood Elves can be. Unreliable, even in the guild halls. Tricky to send messages. Either we get this started today, or I can't make it happen."

Agronak did want to make it happen, but didn't like the pressure. While trying to come up with some alternative, an irritating litany broke into his thoughts. Glancing around with annoyance at the interruption, he noticed Cerisse holding a glass to her lips, staring at a large painting of a mountain range on the nearby wall. She was whispering something to herself, over and over again.

"What do you say? You've got the soft gold, I've got the hard gold. It's perfect," Choctam stated with another enthusiastic squeeze of Agronak's arm. "Deal?"

What could he say, when he couldn't think straight? Tired or not, that was no excuse for Cerisse to potentially ruin a good deal—her constant mutters about making a decision rendering it impossible for him to form a thought...

Sudden insight brought a wave of relief, and the need to fight off a smile. Choctam would certainly take a grin the wrong way. Rephrasing Cerisse's words, Agronak gave his answer. "If I have to commit right now, I need to say no. But if you give me some time to think about it, I'll see what I can do."

"Hmph." The Redguard's hand fell off his arm to renew its fidgeting in his pocket. "I don't like it, but I hear you. Shame, me having to go off to Valenwood, right after we meet. Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, pretending a thought had just occurred to him. But he wasn't a very good actor, the hand that had been waiting for a handshake rising up to limply flop onto his forehead in a poor parody of remembrance. "That's right. He only started last month, I always forget about the boy. New assistant, used to work as a messenger for the guild. I _will_ be able to get and send notes. Isn't that good news? Now, let's go find some parchment and start talking numbers..."

As he passed by Cerisse, listening to Choctam's spiel, Agronak mouthed his thanks at her. She dismissed it with a subtle shake of her head, then raised her glass very slightly in a tiny toast at his initial negotiating success.

* * *

It wasn't midnight yet, but unfortunately it would be soon. What felt like ages ago, the chapel bells had counted out eleven sonorous chimes. Even though everyone was already in bed, Agronak didn't want to risk being caught wandering around with a candle once the day ended. Cyovta would never forgive him.

But it wasn't here—he'd checked under the bed, in the chest, and even shaken out his pants. Not that it could possibly be hiding in them, but he didn't want to accept he'd forgotten it downstairs. That probably wasn't a very _ra gada_ thing to do.

He had to admit, it had been nice to once more be admired as a great warrior—given by the children when they'd chosen to listen to a tale of one of his more interesting matches rather than a standard bedtime story. He'd not been able to resist letting Elyn and Lara look at it. It hadn't been the one from the battle, but it was impressive enough that it could have been.

But he'd forgotten it like a foolish pit dog. Some warrior he was—couldn't even remember his own damn sword. Frustrated with himself, he opened his door and stepped out into the hall, shielding the light of the candle with his hand. Creeping as quietly as he could, he made for the stairwell, grateful there wasn't any furniture to worry about dodging—it had all been pushed into an unused bedroom in anticipation of tomorrow.

Quickly slipping down the steps, picking up speed as he put distance from himself and the bedrooms, he dropped his hand to let the light of the candle guide him down the long hallway to the salon. That's where they'd sat after dinner, talking about dragons and great warriors until Cyovta forced her children off to bed. At that point Ria still hadn't returned—if she hadn't come back by now, she was going to end up locked out of the house. Cyovta might not believe in the traditions, but she strictly adhered to them. No butler in his right mind would dare contradict his mistress' orders—not even for his master's sister.

The bright twinkle of silver caught his eye, the edge of the sword revealing it's hiding place. Laid out on a high shelf, it wasn't easily seen. Someone had probably put it up there to keep it out of the reach of the children. No wonder he'd forgotten to bring it up with him.

Slightly mollified about his mistake, he turned to head back to the hallway when whispers and the pad of bare feet on wood caught his ears. He quickly blew out his candle, consigning himself to utter blackness. He was impressed—Cyovta _really_ followed the traditions.

Standing in the dark, he had to rely on his hearing to find out who else was in the hallway. Depending on who it was, he'd either relight the candle, or begin a slow, groping trek back up to his room. Faint feminine whispers drew closer. He recognized Cerisse's voice, and if he wasn't mistaken, the other one belonged to Ria.

"Get in there." Cerisse's whispered command was harsh, creating a brief wave of worry in his body. Agronak wasn't doing anything wrong, but for some reason he felt guilty, like a trapped thief. Probably because it sounded like the sort of conversation that wasn't meant to be known of, let alone overheard.

"Reesy, don't push! I know I'm late-" Ria's protests grew muffled as the door to the dining room closed behind them.

Relieved they'd gone across the hall instead of discovering him in the salon, shirtless and clutching a sword and an unlit candle in the middle of the night, he mentally reconstructed the room, trying to figure out how to relight the candle. He had to put it down somewhere, but he couldn't see anything, let alone a flat surface, and with the sword in his other hand he couldn't even fizzle out a failed spark spell to help. The blade was still deadly sharp since he hadn't had a chance to use it, surely it would scratch the floor or damage the furniture if he wasn't careful. Kneeling, he lay both items softly on the ground, preparing to summon a tiny ball of sparkles in his palm to light his way towards a table. He found fire magic tricky, and dangerous, to work with. Lighting a candle in the dark was best done while standing, with the wick well away from anything else.

The soft squeal of the hinges across the hall as the improperly shut door slipped open stopped him from casting. The large old house, well maintained as it was, hadn't avoided the fate of its neighbours. Even though the floors were flat and even, the entire building listed slightly, only noticeable in the way anything round would start rolling to the west if set down without care.

Quiet argumentative words slipped into the salon. If the door was open as wide as he thought they'd see him walk by, candle or no. Cerisse probably had one of her strange whilloken spells active. Agronak was torn—he could stay where he was, wait for them to finish, and then sneak back to bed, or he could show himself, letting them know he'd been in the other room. Already he'd heard enough to know that choice would embarrass everyone.

"Do you have any idea what I could do to you for this? You _vowed_ you wouldn't tell anyone!" Cerisse's angry whispers carried clearly across the hall. A mental ghost of her appeared in his mind—hands clenched into fists, braced for battle. Probably not entirely accurate. She wasn't much of a fighter.

"And you said it wouldn't last!" Ria protested. "It's been five years. _Five_ years! Do you know how hard it's been to cover for you? I had to tell Dyn."

"So he could tell everyone else? Frostfire! Riraynea, we're talking about _Gondyn_. You can't trust him to-"

"No," Ria interrupted, "_you_ don't trust him. I do. I told him two years ago."

A harsh exhalation of annoyance preceded Cerisse's hissed response. "That's not the point! Someone else found out."

"Oh, he doesn't count—he doesn't even know who Eddy is. Besides, he's going home soon. Forget it, Reesy. It won't happen again." If he'd had something else to do, Ria's dismissive mention of that name would have stolen his attention away from it. Agronak was actively listening now, closing his eyes in unconscious habit to block out visual distractions—not that there was anything to see in the dark besides more dark.

"You're not listening," Cerisse shot out in frustration, "_nobody_ else can know!"

"Why? You don't make any sense!" Now it was Ria's turn to sound frustrated. "It's just a _fling_—that's what you said. A fling. Dibella's grace, you don't love him, do you?" she asked, horror coating the words.

"Of course not," came the firm reply.

"Then end it, _please_. You're too good for him."

"Riraynea, you don't know _what_ you're talking about," Cerisse snapped, condescending voice dripping ice. "That's not the point. The point is-"

"No, I'll tell you what the point is," Ria cut in angrily. "The point is Saint Reesy is too good for any of us. I know you told Mama not to let me travel alone. And you talked Papa into making Dyn do an extra year at university. You think you know everything just because you're oh so much older. Doesn't count if you haven't learnt any wisdom in your nine precious years."

"No, I don't know everything, but I do know the important things because I've grown up. It's about time you thought about doing the same."

"I have! We both have, but you don't want to see it!" Ria's voice grew louder, the whisper edging closer towards speaking volume. "Because if Dyn joins the company, and I go to the city, where does that leave you? Still playing with your coven and sneaking around with Eddy. Just because you don't have any goals doesn't mean we don't!"

"See, you're doing it again!" Cerisse retorted. "You don't have the faintest idea, do you? Life isn't _The __Black Castle_ or _Queen's Folly_. People don't think with fairytale minds. I just _wish_ I wanted to keep you from being happy. It'd be a damn sight easier on me."

"Well, it wouldn't matter to me, because you're doing a great job without even trying. So why don't you stop doing whatever you think you're doing, and just leave me alone? You're not Mama, and I stopped playing 'house' years ago. Maybe it's time you took some of your own advice," the contemptuous voice moved closer, towards the hall, "grow up, _Cerisse_."

A flare of green—glow from a retreating light spell—outlined the furniture until it faded back into obscurity. Agronak waited, breaths growing deeper as the tension that had torn through the darkness dissipated. Standing still, he heard the bells of the chapel call out a new day, but he didn't hear anything from across the hall.

Just as he'd convinced himself she must have snuck away, or perhaps fallen asleep at the table, there was a loud crack of wood smacking against wood, followed by the repetitive tinkle of crystal. She'd probably shoved a chair into the table, setting the drops of the candelabra to sway into each other. A twisted noise, one odd, misshapen bitter laugh, came from the dining room. After that there was nothing but the soft tread of bare feet, lightly sticking to the wood floor, as Cerisse walked silently away.

Agronak waited an extra long time, just to make sure she'd gone, before beginning his blind trek through pitch black night towards his room, all thoughts of lighting his candle forgotten. By the time he'd found his bed again, the toll of the bells had sounded out once more, and he felt more confused than ever.


	16. The Influence of Yokudan Traditions

Waking to darkness, Agronak briefly wondered where the stars had gone before remembering what day it was. Groping blindly, making sure he knew which end of the bed he was lying on, he carefully got up. A sticky coating of perspiration clung to his skin, complimented by a fuzzy, thick feeling in his head. He'd overslept—or he felt like it, body annoyed with the indulgence of too many hours swaddled in bedsheets. He'd either have to find someone to ask the time, or wait to hear the chapel bells to know for certain.

It took ages to wash and dress, fumbling around blindly with buttons and ties. At least nobody would see the results, a small mercy of this old superstition. With small, shuffling steps, he made his way out to the hallway, fingers trailing along the walls to guide him towards the stairwell. Maintaining a grip on the railing, each step was tested, foot carefully placed, before he repeated the procedure with the next lower riser. At least when he was on the main floor he'd only need to worry about running into people or furniture, rather than falling down a flight of stairs.

Whispered conversations floated to him on the air, yet another indication of how strictly Cyovta observed the ancient customs. The quick tread of small feet nearby made him pause, not wanting to bump into one of the children. His quiet greeting was returned by Lara, the girl taking pity on him, interrupting her game of hide and seek to lead him to the kitchen, where a simple spread of fruit, mluo-stuffed rolls, and pre-filled goblets of water lay waiting. None of it needed utensils, plates, or would leave a stain if spilled.

Abandoning him to resume his sightless groping, Lara scampered off, familiar with the layout of the house after repeated practice of hiding from the dragon. He took a large bite out of a roll, the tangy, spicy mluo cheese inside, specialty of the Dakfron nomads, prompting him to hesitantly feel about for one of the metal cups. His fingers found one, accidentally plunging into the liquid, prompting him to make a mental note to pat, not poke, when searching things out. Probably safer that way.

Occupied as he was with the task of feeding himself, complicated greatly by not being able to see, he didn't register the stealthy tread of soft soled shoes drawing closer. It wasn't until he felt the gentlest pressure on his back did he startle, dropping a peeled collequiva and splashing water as he spun around, reflexively reaching out to grab the unknown assailant.

"G'afternoon," Gondyn's strained greeting made Agronak drop his arms, which had caught the lithe Breton in a headlock. Loud breaths accompanied small coughs as he cleared his throat. "Good, ahem, good grip you've got."

"Should be. I crush watermelons between my palms to practice," Agronak growled. If there was any mischief to be had today, he was certain Gondyn would be the one to find it. That little pause of silence, breath being held as the man debated how true the statement was, hinted he'd just done an effective job of warding it off.

"I, uh, I'm _watching_ Elyn. _Seen_ him? Well, figuratively speaking, not literally. Can't see anything, can we?" Gondyn's friendly banter was met with stark silence. "Yes, well, I should go _look_ for him. Don't worry about the water. I'll _see_ that it's taken care of."

Little splashing noises helped Agronak track the man's departure. Ridiculous as he could be, he was definitely the type of person who could amuse himself anywhere, including in a house barred against daylight, occupants under orders to speak only in whispers like cloistered monks.

After finding another cup of water, Agronak shuffled out of the kitchen, blindly kicking the wayward collequiva to roll into the wall with a small splat. At least he hadn't stepped on it, tracking dark green juice all over the house.

Unsure of what to do with himself, restricted to activities that could be done in the dark, he paused in the hallway, contemplating his options. Apparently he'd already slept away half of the day; the usual method of wasting time while waiting for night to fall. Maybe he could find someone to talk to, even though he wasn't overly fond of doing a lot of whispering. Orcish voices didn't lend themselves well to that activity.

Conversation found him, in the friendly voice of Rodyrick. After a discreet inquiry as to whether or not Agronak was truly worried about being found by the dragon, he received an invitation to join Rodyrick in his study. Agronak followed along, listening to the man tap the walls ahead like an aural trail of breadcrumbs, before he felt carpeting under his feet.

"Wait one moment," Rodyrick said. A series of noises—some he could recognize, like the closing door, others unfamiliar, clicks and swishes—sounded out in the darkness. A soft curse, given after an accidental thump of furniture, was followed by a series of cracks, similar to wood being snapped in pieces. Daylight, damp and grey, highlighted Rodyrick's struggles with a large padded frame, sized to fit snugly on the window. Giving the man a hand they soon had the unwieldy covering on the ground.

"What about the..." the question trailed away, Agronak's hand pointed towards the cracks in the door falling as he saw a similar apparatus clamped firmly over the entrance. Clever—now they could have as much light as they wished in this room without letting any seep into the rest of the house.

"Do you know the secret to a perfect marriage, Agronak?" Rodyrick asked, waving him over to one of the comfortable chairs by the cold fireplace.

Agronak shook his head while quickly glancing down at his clothes, making sure he'd not missed any buttons when he'd dressed. Happily, everything was as it should be.

Rodyrick glanced over his shoulder, pausing in his work arranging kindling on the grate. "It was a Hawkton who discovered it. Lots of brilliant men hiding in the family tree." Satisfied with the results, he pressed a hand to the dry wood, flames springing up on contact. He pushed himself up from the carpet, then moved over towards a locked cabinet.

"Drink?" Rodyrick asked, listing off the contents of the decanters hiding inside. Pouring Agronak a small tumbler of brandy, same as he was having, he carried them over and settled comfortably into a chair. "The secret," he said, pausing to clink his glass with Agronak's, "is _this_." Waving the cut crystal around, he indicated the room. Agronak wasn't sure what he meant—certain the secret to wedded bliss didn't lie in bookshelves crammed with old tomes, or an assortment of horns mounted on the wall.

"A study!" Rodyrick elaborated, sipping his drink with a contented smack of his lips. "Get yourself a study, and keep it your own. Let her worry about the rest of the house. Works perfectly."

"I'll remember that," Agronak replied dryly, mildly amused by the advice. Any woman would have more than enough to worry about in Crowhaven. Half the rooms didn't even have an assigned purpose, either empty, or used as assorted storage. It would almost be a relief to let someone else fret about turning them into libraries, salons, or even workrooms.

"I saw you talking to Choctam yesterday, going over some parchment. He didn't get you to sign anything, did he?" Rodyrick asked politely, slight worry in the question. Pleased with Agronak's answer he'd not agreed to anything yet, the Breton complimented his business sense. His subtle inquiries if he could take a look at the proposed contract was met with a patting of pockets as it was sought out, Agronak grateful for any advice he could get.

Rodyrick read it carefully, nodding in some spots, frowning at most. Standing up in that spry fashion he shared with his brother, he walked to his desk, calling Agronak to join him. Pulling another chair beside his, he sat down, taking out some fresh parchment before uncapping his inkwell.

Line by line they went over the terms, Agronak mildly embarrassed he hadn't noticed the _shipping charge, transport costs,_ and _carrying tariff_ all meant the same thing—he was paying triple to get his flour to High Rock. Two of those were scratched out, and the remaining number reduced by half, Rodyrick muttering it was a good thing he got an importer to give him a second opinion.

The man became engrossed with the numbers, speaking in percentages and profit margins, muttering bizarre incantations with unfamiliar terms—like watching some strange numerical alchemy being performed. By the time he finished the original parchment was covered with arcane runes and scratches, and a much shorter list of terms were transferred over to the blank sheet.

"You did pretty good," Rodryrick offered, pulling the new parchment closer. "Getting Choctam to write anything down is a coup. Man's a brilliant, pushy little bastard."

Chuckling in agreement, Agronak looked over the results. They confused him, ranges of numbers being written in some spots, precise amounts given in other places.

"That's your best and worst," Rodyrick answered, surprised at the question. "See, if you go with this amount, you'll maximize your profit while still leaving room for him to earn some gold on the deal. Any lower than this number, and you're not getting enough to make it worth your time. Didn't your tutors teach you this?" Hearing the only tutors Agronak studied under used blows instead of words, Rodyrick let out a low whistle. He sat back, rubbing his chin in thought, eyes wandering the room. "You've had no training in how to run a city?"

"There was some. Lil...A friend gave me some pointers on etiquette, manners, politics," Agronak replied, catching himself before he revealed just who had offered the advice. Judging by Rodyrick's shaking head, the man wasn't overly impressed with the results.

"That's like training for the arena by practicing running. Useful skill, but not the important one," the man said, popping down the lid of the inkwell with a quick snap. "Tell you what, since you're here, how about we make a deal. I'll give you a condensed lesson in negotiating if you show my children a few moves. What do you say?"

Agronak happily accepted the offered hand. Rodyrick stood up, smirking as he shook his head. "First lesson—never accept the first offer. Ever." Passing by with a friendly pat on the shoulder, he started to elaborate, explaining why. "Any decent businessman will leave room to negotiate. Means there's always a better deal to be had. And if you run into the rare, honest fool who doesn't do that, you don't want to do business with him anyway. Trade isn't based on money—it's about relationships. You don't want to waste your time courting an idiot who'll be broke come Saturnalia."

Rodyrick continued his instructions, favouring a very earthy style of talk, trying to use examples that applied to Crowhaven and its products. Every now and again he'd grab a book from one of the shelves, recommending Agronak read it. By the time the gloomy light from the window began to fade, the sun abandoning its attempts to drive away the thick clouds loosing trails of drizzle over the city, the desk sat piled with a miniature library of texts, discussing everything from the fundamentals of exporting to philosophies of ruling. The obsessive streak that ran through the Hawktons manifested itself as a fascination with business in Rodyrick, a fact Agronak grew increasingly grateful for.

A soft tap at the door halted the lesson just as Rodyrick was trying to explain why a good negotiator always made sure the other party made a profit. They abandoned the scattered parchments, covered in two different styles of symbols, obscurity lost as Agronak learnt the secret language of finance. Cover wedged back into the window, Agronak waiting in a spot by the door, Rodyrick extinguished the fire, plunging them back into darkness.

A brief struggle to free the door later, Agronak followed behind tapping fingers. Slightly disoriented since he didn't know where the study was to begin with, he wasn't sure what room he ended up in, but could tell by the whispers and rustling clothes the family had assembled together in it.

Lara's soft voice, excitedly stating it was almost time, accompanied her gifts—something that felt like a branch pressed into one hand, a smooth handle attached to something heavy and noisy in the other. Following her advice to press it against his leg, he felt the soft chill of metal through his pants as he muffled the jingles.

Preparations complete, Cyovta began the tale of Frandar Hunding, famed Ansei—Master of the Spirit Sword. Agronak wasn't familiar with this story about Hunding's struggles to rid Hammerfell from a plague of dragons. It was a violent tale, without a happy ending—after Hunding's death the dragons lived on, still a threat, but forced to stay hidden in the sands of the Alik'r, banished from the Dragontail Mountains. Hunding's mystical power kept them from bothering his people, except on this day, the Day of Waiting, when they rose from the desert. The people remembered Hunding's sacrifice, hiding away inside, making sure the dragons couldn't find them, ensuring his work wasn't in vain.

The story finished, silence fell upon them, expectation coiling around their hearts. After an ageless wait, time losing meaning in a void of black, the first toll of the chapel bell could be heard through the walls. A sudden explosion of noise and light filled the room, Rodyrick offering out a cupped flame as the family quickly lit their torches, noisemakers being shaken while threats were called out on the dragon's head. Jingling the tuneless bells strung together on his shaker, but opting out of the bellowing, Agronak followed behind them, the children leading an enthusiastic rush towards the front door.

They tumbled out into the damp night, the drizzle having given up its fruitless attempts at turning into rain, only the heavy clouds remaining behind to hide the stars. To his surprise he found many of the townsfolk waiting on the grounds, taking up the cry, waving torches and making noise with everything from instruments to old pots. Some of the louder cries were loosed by those who'd clearly spent the day waiting in a much less sombre, and perhaps less sober, fashion.

Swept up by the camaraderie of the crowd, he shouted along, jangling the little bells up at the sky, earning approving looks from Lara and Elyn. The joy of making noise after so much time spent in silence was quickly surpassed by the sudden appearance of a sparkling dragon. The crowd hushed in a moment of awe, taking in the magnificent form of the magic—a spell being cast by a nearby mage of no small skill—before they renewed their noise with extra vigour. The dragon circled about above them, swooping closer towards their heads, earning waving lights and angry cries whenever it drew near. After a few minutes of this it flew up, shrinking into a small ball of energy, before exploding in a brilliant rain of twinkling stars, falling down to disappear out of reach overhead.

Approving applause, mixed with rattles and bangs, was given by the crowd towards a blushing Bosmer in damp robes standing near the trees. She made her way towards Rodyrick, her work complete, while the townsfolk began to drift towards their destinations, be it tavern or home, to discuss the merits of this year's dragon hunt.

Cyovta came over, having removed the burning torches from her children's imaginative play, and reached out to take Agronak's torch and noisemaker. He noticed a strange pattern of dots and swirls on her white gown, some pale red, some faint blue. "You must have run into something—it's all over your dress."

She gave him a knowing smile. "And your back. Don't worry," she offered when he twisted around to see the trailing streaks of green, "it fades away. You don't even have to wash it. I made it for the children to use it in 'tracking the tiger.'"

Looking closer, Agronak saw that the dress and tunic Lara and Elyn wore had initially been white, but were now so mottled with colours it was almost impossible to tell. Smudges marked their skin, difficult to see on their tan faces, but easy to see on Gondyn's paler skin. Judging by the placement of a large green handprint on the man's pants, Agronak had a pretty good guess which one of the 'children' had wielded the green.

Gondyn gave him a familiar eyebrow wiggle, having seen Agronak's discovery of his clothing's new decoration. Too amused to be annoyed, Agronak winked back, brought his hands up, then slowly pressed his palms together, giving them a twist and squeeze when they met. The Breton's pleased smirk fell a little at the gesture.

Trying not to chuckle and give the game away, Agronak looked around to see who else had received similar markings during the day. He caught sight of Ria, walking down the drive beside a bushel of blond curls—so that's why she'd been out so late yesterday. Now curious, he searched for Cerisse, but couldn't see her amongst the remaining revelers.

Rodyrick distracted him, ready to resume their lesson. Soon he was back in the study, plunged into a deep pool of financial theories, pleased to discover he was learning how to swim. Now if he could just learn how to deal with the gold-hungry slaughterfish lurking at the bottom...

The rest of the evening passed quickly, surprising Agronak when his host excused himself with a yawn. It didn't feel so late, since he hadn't even been awake for half a day yet. Another reason he disliked oversleeping so much. It threw his body's schedule off balance. Knowing that sleep was unlikely, he remained in the study, eying the imposing stack of books Rodyrick had graciously offered to lend him, to be shipped back to Tamborne whenever Agronak finished with them. Curiosity driving him, he got up to skim the shelves, finding the titles Rodyrick had scoffed at while searching out the useful ones.

Pulling a couple of the more amusing books from the shelf, Agronak settled onto the small sofa facing the fireplace, then stepped into the absurd world of impractical advice. The one he started with, _1,001 __Ways to Work Your Peasants for Fun and Profit,_ had him chuckling from the first page. It would be better titled _1,001 Ways to Get Burnt in Effigy_. It had to be satire—he sincerely hoped so.

Lost in the poor advice, imagination captured by the riveting suggestion to try having your peasants alternate duties with horses—so the horses would live longer—he didn't hear the soft tread of bare feet enter the room, disappearing at the carpet edge.

"Good book?" Cerisse asked, startling him so much he snapped it shut. She sat down delicately beside him, picking up one of the books scattered on the cushion, waiting to be read. "_Ruling Like a Lord or Lady: Guide to Your Best Government Style by Birthsign_. Sounds useful."

"Probably doesn't have as many ideas as this one," he noted, swapping books with her. "It's got over a thousand."

"Really?" she asked with a smile, opening it up to a random page in the middle. "Number 456: Save on household staff. Hmm." The smile grew as she read, blossoming into a wide grin. Looking up, mirth sparkling in her eyes, she read him a passage. "Too many ignore the leisure hours of the peasant, letting them waste it in idle frivolity. Raise their standards and increase their productivity while lowering your manor's costs with this handy tip. After a day in the fields, allowing a few minutes for their evening meal, train the trustworthy ones how to properly clean. Scrubbing fireplaces, sweeping floors—it gives quite a list, oh, here we go—they'll better appreciate the fruits of their labours by seeing the wonderful things they've provided your home, and they'll apply their new knowledge of cleanliness to their own huts." She closed the book, picking up the other ones on the sofa, and let out a snort of amusement. "And when would they clean? Or did tip number one include instructions on training them how to live without sleep?"

"That's tip number two. Tip number one is convincing them about the benefits of raw food. Cuts down on wasted time spent cooking," he joked, earning a laugh from her. Flipping open his book, he pretended to read it. "Listen to this. The Serpent ruler takes after her slimy namesake. A powerful leader, her only weakness is a tendency to read guides that offer over a thousand helpful tips-"

"It doesn't say that," she scolded, stealing the book from him. "Besides, snakes aren't slimy. They're dry and slippery."

"Oh? Sounds like you're on friendly terms with snakes." Lowering his voice, he leaned in a little. "You can tell me—you're a Serpent, aren't you?"

"No," came the tart reply. "I was born in Sun's Dusk." Ignoring him, she flipped the page and started to read.

Thinking out the conversion of months to signs using a method Synderius had taught him years ago—a trick to impress ladies they'd found never worked—he came up with her birthsign. "Why don't you tell me what it says a Warrior should do?" he asked with a smirk.

Looking completely unimpressed—the same face every lady he'd tried that trick on had made—she gave him a withering glare. "Yes, I know, obviously I'm not one of those people you hear about who gets powers from the stars." Annoyance softened to curiosity "Have you ever met someone who has? No, wait, you're one of them, aren't you? A Warrior, or a Steed, right?"

"You want to know my sign?" he teased. "I'm disappointed it isn't obvious. I'm a Lover." He winked over her wave of dismissal, before switching to a more serious tone. "No, honestly, I am. Born in Sun's Dawn."

"Oh. So you don't have a power either," she stated, turning back to the book.

"Are you sure?" he asked, leaning just a bit closer. A faint blush shone on her face, which he used as a sort of guide—pink was safe, crimson tended to make her flee. "Or are you afraid to find out?"

"I'm not going to fall for it," she scoffed, giving him a darting, sidelong look. "That one's older than dirt."

"You misread my intentions. Give me your-" A quick tug of war was held with her near hand, ended when he finally grabbed hold of her wrist. "Give me that hand. Good. Now close your eyes."

"No," she stated flatly, pulling her arm back with a feeble tug—not a serious attempt at freeing it.

"Yes. If you don't, your eyes will dry out. You can't blink when you're paralyzed." He waited patiently until she finally closed her eyes with a huff.

"Well?" she demanded, frowning at the wall.

"Give me a moment. I'm trying to do magic here," he retorted. Lifting her warm hand, gently waving it in a circle a few times for show, he brought it up to his face. Sparse freckles dotted her skin, a dark one close to her thumb capturing his attention. He gave it a gentle, chaste kiss.

Putting her hand back in her lap, he grinned widely at her frozen form. As he'd hoped, she'd played along, pretending to be paralyzed. Making as much noise as he could, bouncing in his seat a little for good measure, he grabbed his forgotten cup of water. "See? It worked. Should wear off in time for breakfast. Now, I noticed you didn't get tracked today. It's not a good idea for a tiger like you to go unmarked."

The corner of her lips were twitching, so he tried to hurry, wanting to finish before she gave herself away. "Dyn gave this to me as a farewell present. It washes off, eventually. Never could get it out of my shirt." He tapped his finger on the metal, hoping it sounded like a tin in her imagination. The restrained smile fell a little. Good. "Have you ever seen a hairless Khajiit? You see everything if you live in the Arena long enough. They paint their faces to look like cats. So let's just make you look a bit more like a tiger-"

She yelped when his wet finger, dipped in nothing more harmful than water, touched her face. Distracted with her inspection of his hand, her warning system of blushes didn't notice him leaning in until it was too late.

The longer he kissed her, the more he realized how much he'd been wanting to. And judging by her reaction, she'd been waiting for the same thing. As delicate hands reached up to warm his shoulders, he pulled her closer, amazed at the strength he could feel in her small frame, smooth back muscles shifting under his palms. Leaving her lips for a moment, he kissed her cheek, following a seductive trail of freckles down towards her neck, savouring the way it made her breath catch in her throat.

The press of her hands grew into a push, her body twisting away when his journey brought him to her collarbone. Relaxing his grip, but not ready to let her go, he sought out her lips again. But the best he could do was to kiss a crimson cheek, her face turning away as his came near.

"It's late. I should be in bed," she whispered, attempts to leave subsiding a little as his lips met the corner of her mouth, her head turning slightly to meet his kisses.

"That's a great suggestion," he murmured, tugging her a little closer. Unfortunately, the combination set her off, and in one squirm she was free, blushing furiously as she stood over him.

"Good night," she said, slightly out of breath, before stalking off towards the door. He watched her go, waiting to see what she did. Just as he thought she wouldn't, she peered back at him, one green eye stealing a picture to tuck away in her memories. He gave her a wink, certain her skin coloured even more, before relaxing back into the sofa with a deep sigh.

If there was anything he'd learnt about her, it was that no matter how often she felt the need to scamper away, she never could resist coming back. For a woman like that, he was quite prepared to wait her out.

A sobering thought chased away the pleasant imaginings, reality intruding on his plans. Unless she sped things up, there would soon be a province between them. Remarkable as she was, he didn't think she'd find a way to continue a game that stretched across the Alik'r.

* * *

"Take that, wicked rogue! None can stop the spirit sword!" The sword in question, a very dull little shortsword, not much longer than a dagger, waved vigorously overhead in triumph.

"Argh! I will have my revenge, Ansei! Beware my curse!" The wicked rogue slumped to the ground clutching her stomach, rolled over, then kicked her legs twice in a final death spasm.

The flat of a practice longsword barred his path towards his wayward pupils. "Don't bother," Cyovta said, voice low. "Worry about those of us who want to learn."

Letting out a frustrated grunt Agronak turned back to his waiting students. Correcting Cyovta's grip, making her run the drill without her partner a few times, he was satisfied she understood the idea. Knocking Gondyn's stance a little further apart, he pronounced them ready to practice. They were a good match, strengths and weaknesses balancing out their sparring as they took turns attacking and defending overhand blows.

Leaving them to their own devices, he turned his attentions back to his most rapt student. Lara, more somber than ever, seemed to be trying to memorize his every word and movement. Where she took combat very seriously, her brother much preferred to hold the battles in his imagination, engaging Ria as his accomplice.

With Rodyrick attending to business, and Cerisse..._out_, that left Agronak to partner up with the little girl. Maybe if he knelt, it would be a little easier for her.

She rejected the idea, wanting him to teach her _properly_. So he did, showing her how to swing her sword, the best way to stand, the concept of attacking with as little build up as possible to keep her opponents off balance. Those lessons absorbed, there was nothing else he could do with her but let her practice. Her attacks were vigilantly warded off, Agronak all too aware of her available target range.

Switching them up, he moved on to disarming techniques. Gondyn volunteered to work with Lara, a noble offer, since in her enthusiasm she accidentally tried to de-hand his arm almost as often as disarm his sword.

Nodding across to Cyovta, the Redguard's keen eyes watching his every movement, Agronak held out the sword he'd chosen, the pitted iron longsword with the slightly off balance blade. It was hard enough teaching people to fight, it didn't help to give them lopsided weapons, even for practicing.

With a surprising viciousness, she sent it twisting to the right, the weapon arcing in a loping flight over the damp, tamped earth of the practice area to strike Gondyn hard in the calf. The poor man, beginning a colourful curse, had to settle for a loud noise and a grimace when he remembered the attentive presence of his niece.

Agronak retrieved his sword, mentally berating himself to remember the old saying about deadly assumptions, before taking position across from Cyovta once more. Pleased with herself, he could see her movements loosening up, more fluid and dangerous than before. A familiar fire, shared by all warriors, lit her face from the inside.

_Redguard_, he reminded himself, she was a Redguard. He had more than enough experience with them, including years spent training and working under the grumpy guidance of Owyn. Bloodthirsty, vicious people, all of them.

That's why they were one of his favourite races.

She struck again, but he was ready, knocking the sword out of her hand, countering the movement. To his pleasure she spun low, picking the weapon back up, before attacking with an overhand swing—just as he'd taught her. The battle joined, he let her attack, defending her best moves, counterattacking her poor ones.

She was no wilting desert blossom, but a hardened lady of the Dragontails, strength of the iron-rich stone of her birth as much a part of her as her blood. He could tell she hadn't had an opportunity to fight like this in months, unleashing her best moves as quick and powerfully as she possibly could, trusting in the skill of her opponent to prevent any unfortunate accidents.

Elyn, imaginary battles abandoned in favour of a real one, began cheering on his mother, shouting sayings of the Hel Ansei while poking his sword at Agronak, as if he could cause damage merely by wishing it so. Standing safely out of range on the grass, Gondyn watched with a grimace, healing spells working on his various injuries. Beside him Lara followed the match, blinking as infrequently as possible to not miss a moment, limbs twitching as she tried to imitate an attack in miniature.

Something about the way Cyovta gripped her sword, the way she swung it, suggested it wasn't her natural weapon. Waiting until she thrust it forward, Agronak spun around, free hand clutching her wrist, side coming to rest pressed up against hers.

"Staff?" he asked, breathing deeply.

"Spear," she replied with a grin. Releasing her arm, she gave him a nod before running back towards the house. Blood still up, he kept busy while waiting, allowing Lara to attack with as much vigour as she wished. The girl certainly took after her mother.

Now wanting to play, Elyn edged closer, clamouring to take a turn. Gondyn, in a bit of a sour mood, Ria busy attending to his wrist, hushed him, telling him if he'd paid attention like his sister then he'd have gotten a chance to fight. The excited child, mind blending fantasy with reality, charged his uncle, intent on vengeance at being denied.

A very poor choice. Pausing in their exercises, Agronak and Lara watched as the wayward boy was disarmed, scolded, then marched off for discipline. Ria, picking up the abandoned weapons, followed them towards the house.

For a while the only sound in the still morning air was the dull clang of metal against metal, Lara's exuberance having tempered itself back into a solemn studiousness. Agronak's thoughts drifted, his training automatically defending against her rote attacks. He should have guessed at the seriousness combat was taken in this family when he'd seen a large sparring circle in the middle of the back garden, lover's paths and hedges forced to detour around it. Hemmed in by slanted buildings, the sun an infrequent visitor, the temperature was cool, the damp on the plants still weighting down the air with moisture. Perfect weather for practicing—nobody could last as long on a hot, bright day as they could in the chill shade.

He wondered where Cerisse had gone off to so early. According to the maid she'd already been out for hours by the time he'd come down for breakfast. Had she even slept at all? And what was taking her so long to get back?

Cyovta, mood slightly soured by her son's foolishness, returned carrying a dull-tipped spear, ragged red practice streamers knotted at the base of the blade. It was a favoured weapon of those who lived in and around the mountains beside the Alik'r, useful for keeping a safe distance when fighting off giant scorpions or flying harpies. Swords were luxuries for those with quick access to healers and stockpiles of anti-venom potions.

After a few rough attacks, Cyovta's attention still slightly scattered, Agronak tried to get her focus back with a couple of quick pointers of how to handle her weapon. He'd been taught how to use anything and everything that might show up on the Arena floor; he'd just found longswords to be the most effective for fending them all off.

His plan worked, though not as he'd originally intended, Cyovta slightly offended he was trying to show a _ra gada_ of the Dragontails how to use a spear. Intent on proving to him she knew what she was doing, she attacked with a renewed vigour. Now he was the one trying to focus, needing to pay attention to her whirling weapon and powerful jabs.

Lara remained a mute observer to the well-waged battle, standing motionless in stark contrast to the constant blur of spear and sword. Cyovta lasted longer than he'd expected, even for a Redguard, and he was rather fatigued by the time she finally yielded from exhaustion.

Praising her abilities, offering advice in between deep breaths, Agronak was surprised to see Cerisse standing beside a twisted tree, watching him blandly. His wave in greeting brought her over, no hints given in her body language as to the cause of her grim expression, or her terse questioning if he was ready to depart for Chesterbrugh.

Something about her spoke of urgency, a message picked up by Cyovta as well. In a blur of packing, farewells, and promises of letters, he found himself once more seated upon the sedate white horse, following Cerisse through the city streets.

She shook off his attempts at questioning her, refusing to give detailed answers as she led him further into the countryside, the roads she took narrowing from highways to little more than a dirt path in the woods. Unless he was sorely mistaken, she was headed south-west, while Chesterbrugh was further along the coast to the east.

He could hear the mournful sounds of seabirds overhead, the dull roar of the waves mellowing the harsh caw of their cries. A different kind of damp air, exotic with foreign seas and sunken treasure, clung to his skin, beckoning him to come to the shore and watch, to wait for an elusive _something_ that might surface in any new wave.

The trees, diminished in size, finally fell away, revealing a stark beach, endless stretch of cold white sand dotted with pitted limestone boulders, years of shifting tides having wormed holes of decay into the rocks. Following Cerisse's example he dismounted, and after tethering his horse removed his shoes. The chill abrasion of sand under his feet set his teeth on edge.

He watched her count paces from a sloping stone out into the water, not moving to follow her. He had no desire to find out just how cold the waters of the Bay were in spring. She stopped, waves kissing at her ankles, skirt held up in her hands, then turned to him. Her voice came to him as if from a distance, wind and water carving the warmth from her words. "This is where my father washed ashore. Shipwrecked in a terrible storm. He was one of six who survived."

Agronak nodded, unsure what sort of response she was looking for, fairly certain she didn't want any at all.

She began walking slowly to shore, kicking up splashes of water to fall heavily back to the sea. "We used to come here when I was young, to swim and play. He would pace out with his cane, pretending to follow an old treasure map, until he came to that spot. Then he'd hit the water with such force we could see rainbows in the spray, and say: _When I stood here, the world changed_."

She'd returned, no longer needing to fight the elements to be heard. Sand coating her feet, wind trying to pluck hairs from her bun, she looked somehow wild, like a walking lamia, the famed fish-women of the bay. "It's an old quote in Aldmeris. And an exaggeration. He couldn't stand. His knee was crushed when the mast collapsed. But I understood what he meant. Do you? Is there some place you can stand and tell me on that spot, that one little spot, the world as you'd known it ended, to be instantly replaced with something new?"

Cerisse didn't wait for an answer, turning to look back out to the churning waves. "I can. In a little nowhere inn in a nowhere town, two days journey to the north. In the second bedroom on the third floor, two steps from the door, one step from the window, below a patch of mold."

Setting her face into a grim attitude, she turned towards him once more as she continued. "I'm telling you this, because I do not want you to think I do this lightly. This isn't a hobby or a thrill for me. It's a life of shadows and secrets, and, quite possibly, danger." Brushing an errant strand from her face, she fruitlessly shook her head against the wind's caresses. "I'm telling you this, because you're about to be offered a choice. Return home to relative safety—I can't assure it—and forget about me, my family, your time in Menevia. It was just a job for you, remember?"

"And the other option?" he asked, confused by her dire speech.

"Stay, at very great risk should things go wrong—things we can't directly control—and help me try to change the world."

"How? What are you-" His questions were cut off, Cerisse whirling around in impatience into the wind, pushing hair out of her face. She beckoned him to follow her, walking to the relative shelter of a massive chunk of rock. Reluctant to do so, he sat down beside her in the sand, uncomfortable cold lumps of stone pressing into his back.

Waving off his renewed attempts at questioning her, she grabbed the air near his ear, before whispering magic that made him shiver. The orange glow, smaller than the others she'd made, floated down to rest in the sand between them, heating his side in a radiant warmth that reminded him of sunshine.

She passed him a small scrap of parchment, the ink barely visible. It was difficult to read, but he couldn't tear his eyes from it. No wonder he'd been attacked in Wayrest. Now he was surprised they'd let him live. For something of this magnitude, well, this was history being created, this was the sort of thing that changed lives and spawned legends. He was being presented with an opportunity to be able to say—_I was a part of it_.

And, best of all, it certainly qualified as an adventure.

"I'm staying," he answered, handing back the note.

She nodded once, incinerated the parchment, letting the ashes stream out into the breezes skirting around them. With an air of finality she spoke plain words of no humour as she rose from the sand. "Then we'd better go to Chesterbrugh. You'll need to send another letter to your housekeeper."


	17. The Vital Shipping Industry

The talk between them was desultory and sporadic, faltering whenever one of the large grey clouds trekking across the sky blotted out the sun, the shade bringing a chill of body as well as mind, the lapses of light turning thoughts to darker imaginings of shadow enemies or the devastating potentials of failure. He wondered what combination of stars had wrought this, placing such weighty matters on the delicate shoulders of one Breton, and the massive shoulders of one Orcperial.

The landscape changed to rolling hillocks and jutting promontories of cliffs that fought with the waters of the Bay for supremacy. This area was the trickling start of the rocky geography which folded in on itself, twisting and building to the north west until it blended into the sharp-peaked Wrothgarian Mountains. They paused at the crest of an escarpment, a natural vantage point overlooking the village of Chesterbrugh. A half-moon of buildings had been built in circling bands, all centred around the town's most important constructions—the docks.

Cerisse paused for a moment to admire it, pointing out the large warehouses, looking so much like small crates from here, but Agronak paid little attention. His gaze wandered to the dark forest behind them, imagination trying to see towards their eventual destination, the future almost visible as a path of twisting road leading through unfamiliar territory.

The air, scented with the clean fragrance of sea plants and wet wood, hinted this was no regular coastal town with an economy based on the harvest of the sea, but an industrious port city. Connected to the main highways which served the area, protected from destructive storms by a natural inlet, Chesterbrugh was the main destination for everything going in and out of Menevia, the funnel through which goods and people flowed.

Imperial influence could be seen in the streets, paved with well-worn stones that reminded him of Anvil, built extra wide so coaches and wagons could pass one another with ease. Inns, duty offices, warehouses, and the headquarters of shipping companies crowded the roads in abundance, so much so Agronak wondered where the rest of the town was hidden—where the citizens lived, shopped, and played. He doubted even half of the people they saw on the streets lived here; most of them moving with an air of haste bespeaking urgent preparations in advance of a long journey, whether by sea or land he couldn't guess.

Cerisse, by contrast, guided their horses sedately closer to the docks, threading past workers unloading cargoes with colourful oaths and practiced ease. At last she drew to a stop in front of a large, old building, one of the few constructed solely from white blocks of stone, most likely sourced from the nearby hills. A weathered inscription, deep letters chiseled above the doorway's impressive arch, gave the name of their destination: _Hawkton Imports, Limited. _

An undersized youth loitering near the entrance rushed over to receive the horses' reins, welcoming Cerisse in deferential tones. With the same gracious nod she thanked him, the clerk who opened the door for them, and the financiers who greeted her politely as she walked past the narrow doors of their cramped offices. She led Agronak through a labyrinth of hallways and up a couple of flights of stairs to a plain wooden door, adorned only by a metal plate stamped with _Black Rose Supplies & Sundries. _Knocking sharply while turning the knob, she swept into the room with a tentative greeting to Mr. Gaersmith, unsure if he was in.

Mr. Gaersmith was indeed in, a middle aged man with a hooked nose and an Adam's apple that bobbed in his throat like a gull riding a wave. With a bit of a fumble at first, he took her cloak from her, his movements marking him as the sort of person who perpetually seemed to be a surprise away from an attack of nerves. She introduced Agronak briefly as Lord Lovidicus of Cyrodiil, before beginning a series of quick questions regarding appointments and reports. The Breton answered with either a confirming glance at a calendar, or a quick rummage through a stack of thick envelopes in search of the requested parchments. Heading towards an inner door, sunshine slipping out from the gap at the bottom to reflect off the well worn floor, she gave one last request.

"Oh, and would you be so kind as to write up a letter of credit for Lord Lovidicus. Five hundred gold—put it under miscellaneous services in the ledger." Looking to Agronak for the first time since they'd entered the building, she gave him a brief nod of satisfaction. "Farewell on your return journey."

He headed over towards the man to wait for his payment, watching as the Breton's lanky hair fell into his face as he struggled with a stubborn lock on a drawer, when Cerisse's voice called to him once more. She stood in a flood of sunlight, the late afternoon rays pouring in from the ajar door, reducing her figure to a dark silhouette. "Don't forget to give Mr. Gaersmith the weapon and armour."

After handing over the requested gear and receiving a small slip of parchment in return, Agronak was led out to the street by a sympathetic assistant. Cast adrift, he followed the simple instructions to the bank, hurrying to get there before they locked their doors for the day. He managed to slip in a few minutes before close, earning reproachful looks from the clerks. But his business was brief, a quick bit of financial alchemy turning his letter of credit into a bagful of coin.

The sun had already disappeared from view, blocked by a high cliff, but he could tell it was thinking of retiring for the night by the colour of the sky. A rich glow tainted the clouds, dull red highlighting the underside of the deep grey tufts—a sky that earned the approving murmurs of some nearby sailors, but gave Agronak no pleasure. It always reminded him of gore and bloodshed, a murderous sky of ill intentions. Eager to get out from under it, he walked back to the docks, following the loud laughter of drunken voices to a rundown building smelling of warm bodies and stale ale.

Giving his coinpurse a mournful pat, he headed in to rent a room, buy a meal, and make some new friends. If he played his part right, both the gold and the acquaintances would be gone before the next day dawned, leaving Agronak with nothing to his name but his clothes, his salve, and an excellent excuse.

* * *

"I've told you, she's out today and unlikely to return," Mr. Gaersmith stated with a firm voice, matched by his steely posture.

"I'll wait," Agronak gruffly replied. A forlorn chair, squished between a cabinet and a dying plant, was the only place he could see to sit. Carefully lifting a stack of ledgers from the seat, he heard a hasty noise as the man stood up behind the desk.

"Don't touch those!" Mr. Gaersmith scolded, stepping briskly around to take them from Agronak's arms. With a quizzical glance down towards the floor, and a disdainful sniff, he whisked away the forbidden books. "And don't sit down. She won't be back."

Trying to stay calm in front of this martinet of a clerk, Agronak took a deep breath before speaking in a polite tone. "I urgently need to see her. If you know where she is-"

"Never," Mr. Gaersmith snapped, cutting off the idea as he placed the ledgers on the desk with a thud. "Her calendar is confidential information. I can't tell you that."

"I was here yesterday when you went over it," Agronak pointed out. "There was a meeting with a banker, a financial advisor, an exporter..."

"If you know this, why are you here? I'm a very busy man. I don't have time to entertain guests," the Breton snapped, making a show of opening a letter.

"Because I don't know where she's meeting them," Agronak replied coolly. "If you can't tell me, I have no choice but to wait." The empty chair let out a worrisome crack as he sat on it, but it held together. Even if it was a bit small in the seat it was still slightly more comfortable than standing. Slightly.

"If she doesn't come back-"

"She will," Agronak interrupted with a hint of growl. Mr. Gaersmith gave him a very sour look before launching into an elaborate routine of pretending there wasn't a half-Orc sitting across from him. Annoyance seemed to radiate from the man's body. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to ask to borrow something to read.

With closed eyes Agronak leaned back in the chair, the small creaks of stress from the joints surely irritating the Breton further, then placed his hands on his lap, trying to keep them out of the spiked, withering leaves of the potted plant. Feeling the small lumps in his pocket, he reached in and blindly fumbled with them, using feel to find the smallest one. Pulling it out from it's tiny bag, he held it in between his palms.

With nothing better to do, and in no condition to wander about in the bright sunshine, he tried following Cerisse's instructions about meditating. The little lump of amethyst slowly warmed with his body heat until the only sensation his hands registered was that of highly polished stone. But no matter how much he thought of sky, wind, and air, he couldn't feel anything special, his attentions wavering as an annoying draft crept over the tops of his bare toes.

"Damned window," Mr. Gaersmith muttered softly to himself, screeching his chair across the floor before heading towards the inner door. "Worse than damn visitors."

Abandoning all attempts at meditation, Agronak tucked the little rock away, choosing instead to listen to the sounds of the building—the muffled conversations, the shuffling parchments, and the bustling business of clerks trying to outdo the fellow in the next office. His mind, still flocked with the after-fuzz of last evening's work, found it a peaceful sort of hum, comparing it briefly to the continuous noise of training fighters before dropping the analogy in favour of a light nap.

"Lady Hawkton!" The nervous squawk of Mr. Gaersmith caused Agronak's eyes to snap open. A glance at the lady in question revealed a brief glimpse of her tucked away amusement before her face resumed its impassive pose. The man was a jumbling mass of awkwardness again, efficient haughtiness nowhere to be found in his flailing movements. "I told him not to wait here, but he wouldn't leave-"

"I'm sure you did," she soothed, dropping her voice to a whisper as she leaned over the desk,. "but his type rarely listen." Increasing her volume, she turned to Agronak and gave him a curt greeting. "Lord Lovidicus, I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time. I'm in between appointments. Perhaps another day?"

"It will only take a minute," Agronak answered, rising out of the chair with a slight fumble as he discovered his leg was still soundly asleep. Rubbing his thigh in an attempt to rouse it, he noticed Cerisse's eyes continue their downward path to the floor, amusement flashing over her face once more.

"One moment, nothing more," she agreed, handing a small sheath of sealed parchments to the clerk. "Mr. Gaersmith, would you be so kind as to take these down to the vaults for me? I don't have the time to do it myself..."

"Of course," the man answered, looking not at all sure of the wisdom of leaving Cerisse alone with a stubborn half-Orc, but clearly unwilling to demur. Bobbing past them in the cramped office, he gave Agronak a cold glare in farewell before closing the door behind him.

"_My_ type?" Agronak asked once he was sure they were alone.

"Shoeless lords," she replied, mirth in her voice. "Everyone knows the old saying about _them_." She paused in her quick perusal of a stack of reports to briefly stare at his bare feet. "Though they don't say what happened to the shoes..."

"Unlucky roll of the bones," he offered, hoping she'd finish studying them quickly. It had been bad enough walking back to the office through the streets, already filled with active bodies preparing for the day's departures, hoping nobody would notice.

She stopped looking at them and instead gaped up at him, surprised by the answer. "Who would let you gamble your shoes?"

"Oh, they weren't part of the bet," he started to explain, trying to sort through the host of memories, hoping to filter them into a somewhat less embarrassing tale. "The, uh, dancing was." Judging by Cerisse's stillness and expectant air, he was sure she wouldn't leave the office without hearing a few more details. "I, uh, didn't have enough coin to match the ante, then the first mate made a joke about dancing...well, it became the rest of the wager. The innkeeper objected to shoes on the table, so, uhh..." he trailed off when she snorted in laughter. He waited for her chuckles to die away, unimpressed with her amusement.

"Well done," she finally said, putting her papers down with a pat. "They'll certainly hear about that in Wayrest. Come, I suppose you'll want some new shoes. If I kept a barefoot bodyguard around, they'd never stop talking about me." Her grin faltered as she opened the door to the hall. "And that wouldn't be very good, would it?"

On this somewhat sobering note she swept out into the hallway, Agronak trailing behind. It was one thing to know the role, but another to play the part. Agronak continually had to remind himself to appear humble and contrite. She was his employer now, not his friend.

At least, it certainly had to look that way.

Cerisse proved to be a natural actress, ordering him about in politely clipped commands, purchasing basic supplies for him as if buying a new toy for a pet dog—with no concern about his preferences. She managed to mutter out a few well-timed 'honestly's and toss a couple of dismissive head shakes, her disdain at his disgraceful situation subtly making itself known to the shopkeepers and nearby citizenry.

His feet safely shod once more, he followed after her as she walked through the streets, attempting to look intimidating rather than tired. Glancing around in a manner he guessed one would use when trying to spot pickpockets and other scoundrels, he took the opportunity to sightsee. The docks were impressive, with their long piers and anchored ships, an assortment including everything from passenger vessels to cargo rigs to flat-bottomed dinghies—favourites of the west coast sailors of the Iliac Bay, the shallow boats allowing them to float deep into the marshes and rivers of that region.

Aside from the gleaming white building, which had hurt his weary eyes when he'd walked barefoot through its doors, he noticed several other structures bearing the Hawkton name—a row of warehouses, a roughly constructed office built right at the edge of the docks, and a thin sliver of a building sandwiched between a bank and an expensive looking healer's shop. Remarkable how quickly the business had grown, considering its shady origins.

Stopping in front of a plain door amidst a row of identical townhomes, jammed together near the outskirts of the town, Cerisse quickly searched her cloak for her key. Once they were inside the cramped hallway she offered him a faint smile. "You can relax now. Your neck must be tired from all that craning."

She gave him a quick tour of the home, a way point used by the Hawktons when in town on business, or preparing to travel by ship. There was the requisite study, this one covered with maps of the Empire on the walls, a small dining room, and several bedrooms. He was assigned to the one she'd prepared for him, his valuable weapon and armour awaiting his return.

After settling in and freshening up, he went in search of her, finding her staring at a large map of Menevia on the study wall. She startled slightly when he stood beside her, having been too absorbed in her thoughts to hear him come in. "We'll be in town for at least two more days. I've important business that can't wait. If you're working for me, then we'll have to move by my timetable."

"Pretending to work for you," he corrected while leaning forward to better read the map. It was an old one, from what he could tell—it labeled Menevia as a kingdom, borders drawn high to the north to rub shoulders with a tiny area marked as Orsinium.

"Pretending or not, it's got to look believable," she murmured, putting her finger onto Chesterbrugh. "I've no idea how long we'll have to wait, but let's assume at least two weeks." She traced a few roads, slipping over villages and cities, before she dropped her hand back down with a sigh. "We could tour the entire area and still not waste that much time. And I don't have a reason to parade you around so much. Let's see—we need something slightly dangerous to do..."

"We're looking for danger?" he joked. "What, now that your family is legitimate you need to find excitement elsewhere?"

"I don't have to look for...wait, what?" she asked, pulled out of her reverie. "My family did what?"

"All of this." He gestured around the room, arm waving in what he hoped was the direction of the docks. "Pretty impressive for retired pirates."

Maps forgotten, he watched as she laughed loudly, snorting occasionally in between attempts at composing herself. "Pirates? Who said we were pirates?" Cerisse burbled incredulously.

"Hjoldir," Agronak protested. "And you. Said your father was-"

He couldn't even finish the sentence, her laughter grew so loud. "My father?" she stammered. "Oh, Mara's tears, he'll love that. A pirate!"

"He captured other ships." Agronak explained, recalling Hjoldir's colourful tales. "That's called piracy."

"No, that's called _The Shipyard Skirmishes_," she giggled, pointing towards a low bookshelf. "Read about it if you want. Pirates." Still amused at the idea, she chuckled to herself. "They say _yo ho_, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Yo ho!" she exclaimed at him, before lapsing into another fit of laughter. Breathing hard, she waved her hands as if trying to fan away the humour. The strategy failed as she broke into a large grin while letting out an attempt at a salty growl. "Arrgh."

Patience thoroughly exhausted due to his exhaustion, he leaned in, deciding to silence her with a kiss. The plan worked far more effectively than he'd planned.

"No," she snapped, pushing him away. The atmosphere had gone from the intimate warmth of laughing friends to frigid formality in an instant. "We can't."

Nodding sorrowfully in agreement, he frowned, displeased about her choice but understanding she probably felt it too dangerous considering the circumstances. Not that it made it any less frustrating.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'm going out," she said in a flat voice before giving the map a quick study. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow."

"Shouldn't I go with you?" he asked, surprised at this sudden departure. "I'm supposed to be guarding you—you shouldn't be seen without me."

"No," she replied with a half-hearted smile. "Stay here. I'll be fine, don't worry."

He watched her walk to the hallway, waiting to hear her say some form of farewell, even if nothing more than a quick wave. But all she did was turn to look at him as she walked through the doorway, the briefest glance back before slipping out of sight. Instead of a hearty flush to her face, her complexion was pale, colour drained away so she looked like a ghost version of herself, made of no more substance than memories.

Even before he heard the front door close, he was already worried.

* * *

Shutting the book quietly, he suspiciously eyed the hunched figure of the man behind the desk. Pedantic, weak creature that he was, at this point the mere fact of his birthplace was enough to set Agronak on edge.

_Bretons_. Absolutely crazy, the whole group of them. Maybe it was the infusion of elf blood, maybe it was the years of Ayliedic rule, or maybe it was simply something in the soil, but they had to be the strangest of all Nirn's peoples. Secret-hoarding, plot-making, conniving little devils.

He'd seen glimpses of it in his brief meetings with the Wayrest nobility, but to read their complex, violent, and utterly pointless histories...it was like staring into an endless font of futile insanity. The thin leather volume in his hands, brought along to while away the hours, contained all the proof he needed.

A war at sea, waged all because one Baron had a penchant for ships, and one Prince had a penchant for ruining that Baron's fun. Inflamed by a confluence of politics, exasperated by the apathy of a pretender on the Emperor's throne, it had quickly turned into an inter-Bay battle, waged by hired mercenaries and merchant vessels because none of the rulers wished to formally declare aggressions.

Now Hjoldir's colourful tales made sense. When a 'skirmish', as the book so mildly called them, took place, a bloody sea was sure to be the result. At least towards the end of the hostilities the number of mercenaries on-board had decreased and the merchants had taken to capturing, rather than sinking, the spoils of battle.

Then just as suddenly as it had begun, it had ended, the Baron found dead, a tragic gardening accident with remarkable timing marking the final chapter of the meaningless tale. At least the violent history of Imperials and Orcs were marked by attempts at wresting new territory or greater power. It wasn't a waste of life with no more purpose than to keep one man from happiness.

Perhaps that's why he always felt slightly off balance in this province. It wasn't a lack of intelligence or cunning, but the mild vertigo experienced by the sane when touring an asylum. Trying to predict the actions and habits of those around him would be of no more use than trying to use the sleeping habits of owls to foretell the future.

Even his companion now fell firmly into the category of _Breton_. As much as they needed to keep up the pretense of his continued presence in Menevia being a business arrangement, he hadn't expected her to take the act so seriously. Not returning yesterday until the stars had begun to appear in the twilight of late sunset, she'd not offered any excuses, apologies, or explanations for her disappearance. Any attempts at asking for details were rebuffed with a chilled wall of bland words, all questioning ceasing with her pronouncement she was off to bed before the night had barely begun.

Only slightly chattier this morning, she'd still been rather curt when he'd grumbled about spending the day trapped in this cramped room with the displeased Mr. Gaersmith. Appearances were of utmost importance, so she'd told him, but it still didn't make the hours listening to the man's snippy murmurs to himself about drunks, lords, and gamblers any easier to take. At least the chair had been replaced with a sturdier one, most likely her doing. Mr. Gaersmith would probably have been delighted to leave the old one to collapse under Agronak's large frame. Actually, he could picture the man gleefully whittling down the joints for such a purpose, muttering darkly about visitors and windows the whole time.

The clerk certainly fell into the category of _Breton_. Discussing the man's unfriendly behaviour, he hadn't been surprised to learn Mr. Gaersmith was unnerved by the presence of women, often so worried by them he couldn't speak at all. Apparently Cerisse was one of the few who didn't render him mute, even if their conversations were short and plain.

So Agronak had been shocked to hear the man was married, quite happily, to a lovely woman. Notwithstanding the fact his wife was deaf, rendering speech unnecessary, he wondered how it was Mr. Gaersmith could have a Mrs. Gaersmith, and even someone like that irritating Gelthor could have a trollop like Ilona, but Agronak couldn't even find someone to woo.

Well, he had found someone, sort of. Not that she was available for wooing, falling under the taboo of being a colleague on a dangerous mission, the risks far outweighing the enticement of romance, but also being part of his new taboo—_Bretons_.

When he got back to Cyrodiil, maybe he'd ask Synderius to introduce him to some of those women he kept pestering Agronak to meet. Just so long as they didn't have a drop of High Rock ancestry in them. At this point, even a Telvanni would be a more enticing prospect.

"Good evening, Mr. Gaersmith," Cerisse said as she closed the door of her office behind her. Exchanging brief and awkward pleasantries with the man as she wished him well at the end of her workday, her courtesy to Agronak consisted merely of a polite command to follow her.

Once the narrow hallways of the building had opened out to the wide streets, he was able to walk beside, rather than behind her. She didn't look much at him, but held a brief whispered conversation as she inquired if his note was ready to send. Assured that it was, she led him to the Chesterbrugh Mages Guild.

It was a flat, wide building, built out of rough stones mortared together, sporting a thick tangle of vegetation creeping up the walls. Stepping in, he expected the standard decorations of arcane symbols and gloomy, mysterious lighting. For some reason he'd never seen a hall with proper illumination yet. He suspected it had more to do with posturing and laziness on the part of the mages than interference with occult rituals.

Instead he was surprised by the bright, spacious vestibule. Thick metal doors closed off all further rooms except for one, the one Cerisse stepped into after squaring her shoulders slightly, as if headed to battle. The room reminded Agronak very much of those they'd recently left behind—several mages seated at small tables, quills scratching across parchment, the only difference between them and the clerks was the clerks used their fingers to write, the mages their minds. And, more noticeably, the surfaces of the clerk's desks didn't have suspended balls of blue flame hovering above them.

"Lady Hawkton!" One of the mages, abandoning his supervision of a fellow guild member's work, quickly walked through the ash-scented air to join them. "As always, you brighten even the dullest day." With a wave of his hand, he reached up towards her ear, seemingly plucking a small white flower from her hair. The maneuver wasn't as smooth as it could be, a leaf getting tangled in her bun, requiring her help in extricating it.

Accepting it with a weak smile, she returned the greeting, although with far less flourish or enthusiasm. "Journeyman Bierles-"

"It's Evoker," he interrupted. Sweeping his arms grandly, nearly knocking the hat off a nearby apprentice, he spoke with pride. "I'm in charge of this section now. It's quite an honour."

"Ah, yes, congratulations," she offered blandly.

"So if you need to send any letters, I'll personally take care of it," he stated before dropping his voice to a whisper. "No charge for my favourite customer, of course."

"That's very generous of you, but I don't have anything to send today," she explained, before pointing towards Agronak. "However, Lord Lovidicus does."

The mage didn't seem as excited to have Agronak as a customer, studying him with a suspicious frown. "He's your...friend?" he asked with an apprehensive note of disapproval in his voice.

"Employee. Bodyguard, really." Her answer brought the same excited grin back to the man's face.

"That's good to hear. Not that you need a bodyguard, no, that's not good news at all," the man said, unable to stop his words as he led them towards a stone table in the corner of the room. "But it's good to know you've got someone to keep you safe." Standing in front of the smooth surface, he leaned over to her, dropping his voice again. "Though I'd prefer you had a mage by your side. I'm sure our guild hall could spare _someone_ to look after you."

Noticing the way her finger was insistently pointing towards the distracted mage, and how she kept staring at him in a silent plea of aid, Agronak finally interrupted, offering the prepared letter to be sent to Mrs. Palenix. He'd occupied himself with writing it yesterday, wasting plenty of time making sure it had the proper tone to it. Just the right amount of ambiguity as to why he was still in High Rock (since he supposed he would be rather embarrassed at having gambled away his travel money under normal circumstances), the firm enough instructions to plant and grow as much wheat as possible (with no mention he was in negotiations to sell it for a plentiful profit), and a somewhat vague timetable as to when he would return (because he truly had no idea when that would be).

It still wasn't easy to watch it go up in flames, leaving a tiny residue of ash on the dull slate counter. Task completed, the Breton turned to Cerisse once more, sleeve of his robe trailing in the debris. "Did you just get in to Chesterbrugh? If you're staying for a while, there's a new cook working at the Devil's Chasm..."

"I'm preparing to leave," Cerisse hastily answered, edging slowly away. But the mage wasn't to be dissuaded, matching her step for step.

"Off towards Tamborne? When are you going? Business takes me that way as well. We could ride together," he offered, hand flying up to smooth down any wayward muddy blonde hairs, the hem of his sleeve leaving a trail of ash above his cocked eyebrow.

"My plans aren't definite yet," she hedged, "but that's a very generous offer. Now, I really must be going-"

"Oh, so soon?" the man asked with disappointment, absently rubbing his hand on his forehead. Noticing the soot on his fingertips, he flicked them to the side, sending an open inkwell to puddle onto the floor. Momentarily distracted as he ordered the hapless apprentice at hand to clean the mess up, Cerisse gave Agronak a subtle signal to follow her as quickly as possible towards the door.

They'd almost managed to escape when the tenacious Breton caught up with them in the main entrance, looking much the worse for wear for their visit. Along with the dark smudge on his face and sleeve, his fingers were now coated with the remains of hastily cleaned off ink, little prints being left behind on everything he touched. "Lady Hawkton, there's one last thing. I was going to bring it over myself, but since you're here," he said, handing over a sealed parchment, staining it with his hands. He noticed, giving her a sheepish look. "Oh, sorry about that." Waiting for her to open it, he pointed to the message, trying not to mark it, or her, with the movement. "That's why I'm going to Tamborne. It's an excellent opportunity, perfectly suited for someone with my talents."

"The job has already been assigned," she stated firmly, closing the note. "I'm sorry you got your hopes up. Though it was my understanding these sorts of communication were private." She did not entirely hide the note of cold warning in her voice.

Dumbfounded, the mage quickly stepped in front of her, placing his hand on the knob as if to open the door for them. "Of course they are. That's why the Evoker in charge—myself—looks after them." Hands waving to point to himself as he spoke, he noticed the stains he'd left on the metal handle. Using his clean sleeve, he began to polish it off. "But, if you don't mind my asking, who will be doing the task? There aren't many brave enough to march into a nest of ghraewaj."

"He is." Cerisse's quick answer confused Agronak for a moment, until he realised she was talking about him. Playing along, he nodded gamely, wracking his memories as to what a ghraewaj was. A type of bird, perhaps? The fumbling man had mentioned a nest of some sort. Maybe they were a very vicious sort of bird, with pointy beaks. Like very angry hawks. Well, he could certainly handle hawks, no matter their mood.

"He...I'm sorry," the man spluttered, turning to address Agronak directly for a change, "you can talk to the ghraewaj?"

Sparing Agronak the trouble of trying to come up with a plausible bluff, Cerisse answered for him. "No, but I can." She grabbed the handle of the other door and pulled it open. "Good day, Evoker Bierles."

She swept out into the street to the imploring cries of the mage for her to wait. He ran in front of her path, putting his hands out to stop her by her shoulders, dropping them when he remembered how dirty they were. Put off by the Breton's persistence, Agronak placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Cerisse noticed, giving a subtle shake of the head to indicate she didn't think the man was any sort of threat.

"Lady Hawkton, please, let me go in your place," he pleaded. She gave him a stony look of annoyance, moving to the side to go around him. Blocking her again, he changed his argument. "Fine, I won't try to talk you out of going. I want to go with you. I've been studying the ghraewaj for years, but I've never had a chance to visit a nest. It's an incredible opportunity."

Satisfied by the way she'd stopped trying to walk away, the Breton relaxed a little. "I don't want any gold—I'll even help defray the costs if you'd like. Please, consider it," the young man implored.

She sighed, frowning a little as she mulled over the proposal. When she glanced at Agronak, looking for his opinion, all he could offer her was a brief shrug in response. The man might be a mage, and a _Breton_, but he seemed harmless enough, if a little accident prone. He hadn't liked that comment about being _brave_ enough to walk into a nest alone—if there was one thing he'd learnt, was the more allies you had on your side, the better your chance of living to tell about it. Even if your enemies weren't anything more threatening than irritated birds.

"Very well," she grudgingly agreed. Holding a hand up to silence the mages' effusive thanks, she continued in a commanding tone. "But I make the decisions. We leave first thing in the morning. Meet us at the northern stables, and don't be late."

He reached out to shake her hand while offering promises of loyalty, the words turning to a murmured apology when he remembered why she'd pulled her arm out of reach. Settling for waving with grubby fingers, he walked back to the guild hall, bouncing into the closed half of the double doors because he was too busy looking backwards to watch where he was going.

"Am I allowed to ask what that was all about?" Agronak inquired as they walked through the streets towards her family's townhome.

"This," she answered, waving the note, "is the reason I hired you, should anyone ask. And he," she gestured back towards the guild, "is the means to spread that reason far and wide. Mage gossip—it spreads worse than court gossip."

"And that reason is?"

"To keep my family happy when they find out what we're doing. They would never let me travel to a nest alone." Glancing down at the ink-smudged note in her hand, Cerisse gave it a rueful grin.

"Well, you don't need me for that. Your sworn manservant would have gone with you if you'd wanted," he joked sarcastically.

Cerisse made an exasperated noise as she pocketed the folded parchment. "Yes, well, that's the secret reason I hired you. To keep me safe from being alone with Eduard."

Agronak felt his stomach turn into a pit of ice, a sharp contrast with the fire now burning through his veins. An involuntary rumble, much like a low growl, rattled in his throat as he let out a deep breath.

Glancing up at the noise, Cerisse gave him a curious look. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Swallowed wrong," he grumbled. It was the truth. Having just learnt he'd been signed up to play chaperon on an outing with Eduard—_Eddy!_—he found this new plan rather difficult to digest.


	18. Resting Comfortably While Travelling

Step, step, _creak_. Step, step, _creak_.

Theodyrick paused his pacing to stare at the highly polished floor. For the amount he paid for the room, he expected the innkeeper to ensure everything was in good condition. In his opinion, this included seeing to it the floor didn't squeak with every other step. After all, he'd only rented it for a private place to talk—he should at least be able to hear himself think.

He whirled when the door opened, his younger cousin insouciantly slinking into the room, egotistical smirk firmly in place. Sometimes, it took every bit of restraint not to fight with him. After this was over, he'd avoid Edwistyr for a long time.

Perhaps a couple of years would do the trick.

"Let's make this quick. I haven't slept since yesterday, and it isn't nice to keep a lady waiting," Edwistyr offered as a greeting, languidly sprawling out on the bed.

Wise enough to avoid asking for any sort of details, Theodyrick stepped closer, glaring down coldly at the somewhat drunken man. "I did not bring you here as a pleasure trip. We have business to discuss-"

Edwistyr was already waving away the words with a soft groan. "Gods, you aren't still going on about him, are you? He's not the one."

"Did you know he's still here?" Theodyrick snapped. The series of letters he'd received yesterday—worrisome information lacking in details, accompanied by a snippy note from Edwyn reminding him of the importance of getting that document—were both galvanizing and frustrating. Somehow it still felt as if he was so close, yet so far off the mark.

"Of course," Edwistyr replied with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. "He's an Orc. Got paid, got drunk, lost everything in a bet." He chuckled to himself as he removed a small pillow from under his back. "Even his shoes."

Theodyrick stared at his cousin, wondering how it was he knew so much while carousing in this backwater town, when his own formidable network of spies hadn't come up with anything more than sketchy reports of a grey Orc being sighted on the road to Tamborne. If what Edwistyr said was true, then he felt more lost than ever. Despite Edwyn's insistence, he was starting to think they might be following the wrong noble.

"Are we done? I don't want Monique to fall asleep without me." The leer on Edwistyr's face didn't even register—the man perpetually seemed to wear that grin. At least, whenever Theodyrick had the misfortune of meeting with him before he'd gone to bed...

"You're sure about this?" If the information was correct, Theodyrick couldn't see anything sinister about the situation. Especially as he considered himself rather an expert on _sinister_.

Edwistyr sighed heavily, propping himself on his elbows to sneer up at his cousin. "It happened in the Laughing Skull, a dive of a place near the docks. The barkeep confirmed it, down to the dancing on the table. I'm _always_ sure."

"What's he doing now?" Even though he believed the information, he'd still have his own sources verify it. Somehow, he never felt he could completely trust Edwistyr. The man acted like an idiot, but there was a slippery cunningness there that always raised his suspicions.

"Same as he was before. Playing pack horse to a fool." Swinging his legs around in an arc, causing Theodyrick to step back instinctively to avoid catching a boot to the thigh, Edwistyr sat up. "I'm going back to my room before Rochelle gets bored."

"Monique," Theodyrick automatically corrected. He mentally berated himself when his cousin's lips twisted up into a lascivious smile.

"And Rochelle. Despite their lack of other charms, Menevian women are so delightfully accommodating" Standing with a smirk, Edwistyr walked towards the door, floor creaking under each step. He paused, turning back to Theodyrick with an infuriating smile. "Don't forget to talk to the innkeeper to discuss payment. I've charged my room to your account. As I am here on your _important business_..."

Closing his eyes, trying to tamp down his annoyance, Theodyrick nodded faintly. Just a little while longer, then he wouldn't have to see the man again. He always found too much familial contact to be chafing.

"Oh, and thank you for the generous line of credit you arranged with the bank. Daily expenses do so add up." Edwistyr's light words snapped his eyes back open.

"I never-" Theodyrick began to shout, stopping himself before the whole inn heard them. "I gave you a loan two months ago! How could you need more gold so soon?"

"The loan was for old expenses," Edwistyr soothed with his oily charm, "I need something live on, don't I?"

"You're pushing it too far," he warned. Debt was one thing—nothing, really—but there were limits to how much you could borrow before the parsimonious financiers started to whisper. They didn't like it when you kept taking out, with nothing coming back in. At least he had Ysausa's income to rely on, a pittance that kept them from nipping at his heels. But Edwistyr had no income that he knew of, the man living off his inheritance alone. "You'd better figure out a way to get your own gold, fast, before they call in their markers."

"Hmm," Edwistyr sighed, infuriatingly confident demeanor slipping for a moment to reveal the tired man beneath. "It's almost come to that, hasn't it?" he mused. "Perhaps it is time I secured my future. Though weddings are _such_ a bother."

"A wife?" Theodyrick asked in shock. "_You?_"

"It worked for you, didn't it?" The sharp reply signaled the return of Edwistyr's defenses. "Always such a good example to follow. I've got a rich little nobody lined up for exactly this situation." Giving Theodyrick a roguish wink, he spoke airily over his retreating shoulder. "Besides, I'm worried I'm getting better at signing your name than my own. Good night, cousin."

After a few oaths, Theodyrick began gathering his things. Who knew how serious Edwistyr was? As he searched for his missing glove in a brilliant flood of morning sunshine, he swore to himself if the man ever did come into a large sum of gold, he'd be sure to get back every last coin. With interest. And without Edwistyr knowing about it until the deed was done.

As if he didn't know all the tricks of how to access gold when he didn't have a coin to his name. What did his cousin think he lived on for all those years before he found Ysausa?

* * *

The day was in a strange temper, the mood swings of spring playing out in the skies above them. An invisible dawn, hidden behind thick clouds, greeted them at the stables. Much to Agronak's displeasure the mage turned out so eager to go, he'd risen before the sun, waiting for them at the stables.

Despite the early hour, they'd gotten off to a bit of a slow start, Eduard discovering how difficult it was to ride on horseback dressed in robes. After a bit of struggling, he'd finally hiked up the hem, exposing fishbelly white legs to the elements for the first time in months. Cerisse had been amused, Agronak smug—he didn't doubt the man would quickly regret his decision as they rode through the chill damp wind.

He probably would have, had the skies not opened soon after they'd left Chesterbrugh behind, a torrent of water pouring down on their heads. Despite Eduard's carefully worded suggestions, and Agronak's unspoken hopes, Cerisse had pressed on through the weather, reminding both of them she was in charge of the expedition. By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Tamborne Agronak was drenched to the core, water trapped by his leather armour in places he didn't care to think about, rendering him about as comfortable as a half-drowned rat.

His happy thoughts about stopping at Rodyrick's manor for a warm meal and dry clothes were replaced with bitter curses when he discovered they weren't going through the town, instead taking a little-used road skirting around it, heading to the west. The only comfort he took from their soggy circumstances was that Eduard, spirits dampened by rain, obviously tired from his lack of sleep, wasn't speaking at all, remaining a mute lump of miserable mage on the back of a malcontent horse.

The rain tapered off as they moved west, coaxing displeased steeds over mud-slicked roads, until they arrived at an isolated farmstead. The house had an air of distracted neglect, shown in the way one wall had been painted, the others left to fend for themselves against the damp rolling in from the bay; the way the garden sported erratic patches of clean-picked dirt contrasted by creeper-plagued mud; and in the possessions scattered throughout the yard, buckets and farm implements left wherever the owner had last set them down.

Waiting for Cerisse to speak with the occupant of the depressing looking homestead, Agronak warded off Eduard's attempts at conversation with an intimidating glare. The Breton flailed briefly under the look, slightly jerking the reins of his horse to receive a large splash of mud on his sopping wet robes as the animal stamped into a puddle, misinterpreting the mage's wishes.

After meeting the elderly Elyssa, owner of the less than charming hovel, Agronak wasn't surprised at the warm hospitality they received—permission to have a small fire in an unwalled shelter she misleadingly referred to as the 'shed,' and her grudging agreement to let them put their horses in the barn—for a small fee, of course.

The arrangements made, they had a quiet lunch of simple fare, Agronak and Eduard too occupied with attempting to use the fire to somehow dry their clothes without charring themselves in the process to ask many questions about the next part of the journey. Cerisse, lost in thought in a fashion now very familiar to Agronak—she'd been like that ever since she'd found him sparring with Cyovta—spent the meal staring at the sky to the west.

In the strange shift of weather only spring could bring, as if experimenting with the various moods of the other seasons, the clouds drifted away, allowing a brilliant afternoon of sun and steadily rising heat to take their place. It only made things more miserable, moisture rising from every drenched blade of grass and puddle of mud to combine with the steam Agronak could feel trapped under the baking dark leather of his armour.

"Is there much chance of us doing battle with anything before we reach the ghraewaj?" he asked, standing up from the uncomfortable stump of log serving as a makeshift seat, keeping his head ducked to prevent from bumping it on the rotting boards forming the 'roof'.

"Hmm?" Cerisse asked, pulled out of her reverie. After he repeated his question while walking out into the yard so he could properly stand, she gave a more coherent answer. "No, there shouldn't be anything in this area to worry about. We're close enough to Tamarilyn."

"Tamarilyn Coven?" Eduard squawked, glancing nervously around. He lowered his voice and hissed urgently at her. "But witches live there!"

"Witches normally live in covens," she replied, a curl of amusement on her lip. Catching Agronak's eye, she shook her head softly, wordlessly indicating he wasn't to say anything about her familiarity with these particular ones.

Ruefully chalking it up to another one of her secrets, he gave her a grudging nod of understanding. "Good. Then this'll get a chance to dry off," he stated, beginning to remove the soaked armour. He'd probably pay for it later, letting it seize into stiff angles rather than wearing it until it was merely damp, but he had more than enough irritations to deal with as it was, and he didn't want his armour to be another. Besides, he'd probably be more effective in combat if he could move without the encumbrance of his own clothing.

Fire put out, horses stabled, and equipment checked, they finally departed. Briefly retracing the road they'd come in on, Cerisse soon led them into the forest, after discreetly disappearing from sight—removing her shoes, so he'd guessed, noticing the dirt covered toes peeping from the hem of her long skirt. It was quickly apparent why they had to go by foot, small clefts in the terrain rendering all other means of transportation impossible.

Mottled sunlight streamed down on them, partially blocked by the small leaves the trees now wore, buds having grown since his last journey into the woods. Warmed externally by the intense rays, and internally by the exertions of clambering over fallen trees and through thickets of unruly brush, Agronak was soon wiping sweat from his brow. Eduard, puffing his way through the greenery, body unused to such strenuous tasks, bore a rosy flush, little streams of perspiration leaving glistening trails on his face.

Cerisse, clothes already filthy from her unhesitating style of brushing against or clinging to anything that made her path easier, gave them a little encouragement. "It gets better in a bit. They nest in very isolated places—this rough patch of land works almost as well as a mountain range at keeping people away."

Based on the amount of climbing they did up and down the miniature cliffs and valleys barring their path, Agronak couldn't help agreeing with the assessment. Only the very determined explorer would choose to pursue their strenuous course.

At last the ground began to even out, the thickets of brambles giving way to clumps of gorseberry and the leafy fronds of early feather somnalius, whisper soft tickles brushing his hand as he walked through them. Cerisse gave her companions a quick look over, then stared up at the sky. "We're as close as we want to be during the day. Once the sun starts to set we'll continue."

"Oh," Eduard puffed, loosing his small pack from his shoulders to fall onto the dirt with a thump, "you didn't want to press on? I suppose you should have a rest."

Agronak snorted at the Breton's false bravado, watching as the man gingerly sat down on a mossy rock, clearly wincing with soreness. He removed his own pack, containing both his and Cerisse's equipment, and set it on a rotted stump, holding it open as she rummaged through it.

"I'm going to do a little harvesting," she whispered, glancing briefly at the stretching mage, "_alone_. Try not to let him wander off. It's a dangerous area for the unwary."

"Let me go with you," he grumbled, disliking the idea of being stuck with the irritating man.

She shook her head at that as she fished out a small bag, which had worked its way down to the bottom of the pack during their hike. Placing the long strap over her head, she briefly gave Agronak a pitying look of commiseration. "I'd like that, but if you went then he'd either be alone, which isn't a good idea, or he'd follow, and then I wouldn't be able to do what I need to. I'll be quick."

"Be quicker," Agronak commanded to her retreating figure, watching as she slipped into the trees and out of sight. Turning back he surveyed the area, trying to choose a spot as far away as possible from Eduard while still keeping the man in view. There wasn't much available—either a slimy rock near the Breton, or any number of muddy spots at the base of a tree far away. Reasoning that his clothes needed to be washed regardless, he sat down with his back resting against a thick yew, the exposed lumps of the large roots forming a natural cradle to lean into.

"Where's Lady Hawkton?" the mage finally asked, having noticed her disappearance.

"Around," Agronak growled, pleased at the slight quailing of the curious Breton due to his gruff reply.

"Maybe I should see if she needs any assistance," Eduard stated, standing up from the rock with a soft groan.

"No. We wait here." Much as he'd love to let the man get lost in the woods, he didn't think Cerisse would appreciate it very much. Even though he felt he'd be doing her a big favour.

"Ah, yes, of course," Eduard mumbled, fidgeting a bit as he stood on the spot. Glancing around the area, he pointed towards a nearby stand of silver larch. "You don't see many of those in Menevia. I'm going to take a look-"

"Stay here. That's our orders." Agronak commanded, mentally imploring the man to stay put. If he had to get out of his semi-comfortable position to restrain him, then he'd make sure they both regretted it.

"Mmm," the mage murmured, discomfort twisting his features. "I really think I need to go over there for a moment-"

"You're not leaving my sight."

The Breton grimaced, shifting awkwardly. "Normally I'd comply with any of her requests, but I don't think my lunch was quite, ah, _fresh_..."

"Go!" Agronak barked, waving Eduard away. Watching the man struggle through the bushes, he noticed the lank blonde ponytail pause only a short distance off. "Further!"

Finally satisfied the Breton was out of sight and hearing, he briefly pondered what to do. While a nap would be nice, it probably wasn't a great idea to take one alone in the middle of foreign territory. But he didn't have anything to read, and he'd had enough time to let his mind wander during their arduous trek. Feeling about in the pack, his hand finally found the small lumpy bag. Deciding to try again, hoping a different stone would bring better results, he clasped the small piece of jade in his hands, then began to think about dirt.

Which proved increasingly difficult to do over time as he shifted position, trying to get comfortable so he could continue his meditations. The ground was hard as rock underneath him, proving very irritating to sit on.

A faint noise, carried on the wind, caused the immediate abandonment of his attempts. Jumping up, shoving the useless stone in his pocket while unsheathing his sword, he listened carefully, hoping his mind had been playing tricks on him. Except there it was again, a very quiet, very _feminine_, cry of distress.

Agronak raced through the forest, heedless of the twigs tugging at his clothes, concentrating on following the noise while only dimly aware of the need to mind the ground for divots and roots. The sound grew louder, the wordless shrieks serving to speed him on. At last he caught sight of a person—Eduard, hair in disarray, hands controlling a wall of magical flames. The cries came from behind it, the figure hidden from view by the encircling group of boulders that hemmed off any sort of retreat.

"Agronak, good, I could use some help-" Eduard's greeting was cut off as Agronak hit him from the side, sending the mage sprawling to the ground while knocking the wind right out of him.

Pinning him down, Agronak pressed the edge of his sword against the man's neck. "Stop it. Now."

"Have you gone mad?" Eduard feebly squawked, unable to breathe well under Agronak's heavy frame. Eyes widening in fear as the sharpened metal sliced lightly into his skin, he nodded in spastic jerks. The flames disappeared. "Fine. Done. Anything you want."

Pushing off of the gasping mage, uncaring if the pressure he put on the man's chest as he pressed up broke a rib, he stepped towards Cerisse...

...except it wasn't Cerisse shrunk back against the granite boulder, but a _spriggan_, her adornments of flowers withered and singed, one arm reduced to a burnt stump. At the sight of him, sword pointed towards her, she began to speak a stream of babble, words meaningless to his ears.

"It's a spriggan," Agronak stated, speaking out loud to confirm what his eyes were seeing.

"Yes," Eduard spat, hissing as he sat up. "I know a dealer who'll pay thousands for a live one. There are people who keep them as _pets_."

Offering his free hand to help the wincing man stand, Agronak couldn't stop staring at the spriggan. She kept talking, her remaining arm stretched out towards him, twig-like fingers wavering plaintively.

"I'll share the bounty if you help me," Eduard offered, retrieving a shimmering length of rope from the rocky ground with a telekinesis spell. "You tie this round her neck while I keep her subdued."

The thin cord was pressed into his hand. Taking a slow step closer to the creature, the sound of her speech changed, turning into an almost mewling plea. Agronak glanced briefly back at the mage. "You were hunting spriggans?"

"Well, um," he fumbled briefly before rallying, "_no_, of course not. She attacked me."

Staring at the spriggan, noting the way she was pressed right back into the rock, hand now extended as if to ward Agronak off, he couldn't help feeling something was wrong with the scenario. He'd seen angry, furious, bloodthirsty spriggans before—fought them in a desperate battle in the Arena, a memorable match in which he'd felt the icy spectre of death loom terribly close—but this was not one of them.

"No," Agronak declared, tossing the rope to the ground. Turning his back on the spriggan, assuming a battle stance, he couldn't believe he was about to do this. "I can't let you."

"It's a spriggan!" Eduard protested, retrieving the rope once more. Seeing Agronak's refusal to budge, he stepped closer. "Fine, I'll do it myself. Get out of the way."

"No," Agronak growled, stepping further back, closer to the now silent spriggan. Tension coiled through him, taut nerves on edge, needing only the faintest push to make them snap.

Crunching twigs briefly called both of their attentions away, Cerisse watching the scene with a blank face. Eduard relaxed at her arrival, walking towards her while pointing towards Agronak. "He's gone mad! Lady Hawkton, I implore you, rid yourself of this-"

"Mother says dinner's ready," she calmly said, looking to Eduard.

The man stopped, frozen in confusion. "Lady Hawkton, are you alright?"

"If you don't plant your bean, you can't get your wish," she spoke, walking serenely towards the baffled mage.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, worried by her speech. Agronak too was disturbed by her incoherent ramblings.

She stepped close to Eduard, hand sliding up his chest to his neck. "You look good enough to eat," she murmured in a husky voice, gripping him by the throat and craning her head up, mouth ajar.

Suddenly shivers wracked Agronak's body, his stomach lurching, feeling as though he was experiencing a sudden fall. The colour in the world drained away, bleeding out into the dark palette of night. He struggled to catch his breath, relieved when something warm on his back seemed to open his lungs up again.

Just as suddenly it was over, Eduard crumpling to the ground in a ragged heap, Cerisse walking towards him with concern in her eyes and a smile on her lips. "You saved her."

Realizing the pressure on his back was the wooden hand of the spriggan, he tensed. "Get it off me," he whispered harshly.

Quickly waving the creature away, Cerisse spoke to her in that indecipherable language. By the time the spriggan had finished with her tale, hand gesturing towards the prone Breton and Agronak, she was giggling again. When she moved towards Agronak he flinched involuntarily, Cerisse stepping in to ward her away.

"What about her arm?" he asked as he watched the giggling creature disappear into the trees.

"It will grow back quickly. Don't worry," Cerisse soothed, stepping around him while inspecting for injuries. "What happened?"

He explained the events as best he could while he walked with her to Eduard's limp figure. Bending down he touched the man's neck, feeling a steady pulse, no stiffness present in his limbs. So he wasn't paralyzed as he'd first thought. "What did you do to him?"

"Stole his breath," she answered, frowning down at the mage. "Do you need a hand carrying him back?"

Shaking her off, he arranged the dead weight of the man over his shoulder. "You mean you drained his energy?"

"Similar," she explained, grabbing the rope from the ground. He followed behind her, realizing he wasn't sure which way it was back towards their packs. "Nature magic. He won't wake up until I give it back."

"You don't mean you literally..." he trailed off at her nod. "What happens if you keep it?"

"Then he'll be cursed to sleep forever," she shrugged as she picked her way through a group of bushes, "or until someone asks a witch to remove it."

Agronak mulled this over as they stepped their way over the uneven terrain. "Do you have to give it back?"

"No, I don't _have_ to. But he hasn't done enough to merit a curse. I'd be out of balance if I did." Guiding Agronak, she helped him arrange the Breton on the ground of the clearing, legs up on the rock he'd been sitting on when they'd first stopped for a rest. Holding Eduard's head up as instructed, he watched her select a jagged rock. She gave a glancing blow to the back of Eduard's skull, hard enough to leave a sore spot, causing a quick torrent of blood to well out of the shallow wound. Between them they managed to position the rock under his head as if he'd fallen on it.

"What do you see in him?" Agronak finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. He'd observed nothing to explain her attraction to the annoying Breton—the man wasn't particularly endearing, charming, funny, nor would Agronak put him into the category of handsome.

"Nothing," she spluttered with indignation. "Why, what did he tell you?" she asked, staring suspiciously at the oblivious man.

Relieved by her reaction, he shook his head. "Nothing. It was nothing."

Still regarding the prone man with a wary look, she gave Agronak the version of the story they were about to tell him. Satisfied with the preparations, she leaned over the Breton and opened her mouth.

The strange sensations returned, though not as terribly as before. Through his night-tinted vision he saw a group of impossibly thin sparkling threads, reminding him of spiderwebs in moonlight, rush through the air from her mouth to Eduard's.

"He's waking up," she said to Agronak, the first of many lies to follow. She turned her attentions to the moaning man. "How do you feel?"

"My head," Eduard complained, reaching awkwardly to push away the rock, pulling his hand back with distaste as he viewed his blood-covered fingers. Catching sight of Agronak through them, he thrashed ineffectually as Cerisse tried to soothe him. "You!" he cried angrily, before turning to Cerisse. "He's mad! Dangerous!"

Agronak scoffed at the accusations, rolling his eyes before sharing a dark look with Cerisse. Eduard noticed it, clutching at Cerisse's sleeve, staining it with sticky blood. "Lady Hawkton, you must believe me. He attacked me-"

"Evoker Bierles," she stated calmly, trying to hush him. "Eduard!" Her commanding tone finally caused his protests to cease. "You fainted. I saw it."

"No, no," he murmured, now trying to push away from her. "You were there too. You're both in on it. He fought me for a spriggan, and then you came and...and...you said..." His words fell away to nothing, an embarrassed flush appearing on his face as he remembered her nonsensical words. "Oh."

"Do you feel well enough to teleport?" she inquired.

"What? No!" he spluttered, attempting to sit up before collapsing back down while clutching his head. "I mean, yes, I can cast it, but no, I'm not leaving."

"I'm not carrying you," Agronak gruffly interjected.

Cerisse gave him a cold look before patting Eduard on the shoulder. "Evoker Bierles, please, listen to me. You fainted, you hallucinated, and you don't look very well. Yes, I know you're tired," she spoke over his defensive explanations, "but that doesn't account for your disorientation. I'm not trained in the healing arts, but I'm worried you might have brain fever."

"Brain fever?" Eduard whispered, colour draining from his face. "That's impossible!"

"I've heard it can strike rapidly. These forests are said to be full of it. Please, go back and get a healer to tend to you. I'll be distracted with worry if you don't."

"No, I don't...I mean, I can't...brain fever?" he mumbled to himself. "Well, brain fever is pretty dangerous..."

"Then you'd better go," Agronak added, kicking the Breton's bag to him. "Now."

"Ah, yes, well then," he muttered, clutching it to himself. Nodding briefly, releasing an exhalation of pain at the poorly thought out movement, he looked up at Cerisse. "Lady Hawkton, it was an honour traveling with you. I only wish I could have seen our journey through to the end-"

"Yes, of course, Evoker," she interrupted, trying to halt his words. "I understand."

But he wasn't to be deterred. "Perhaps another time I could provide my services again. No cost to you, of course. Maybe when you return to town we could discuss this over dinner...?"

"Maybe," she answered lightly, standing up. "Farewell, Evoker."

With a few more profuse goodbyes, Eduard finally disappeared in a flash of white light, leaving them alone in the quiet forest. Cerisse relaxed, shaking her head. "I thought he'd never leave. I've been waiting to dry off all day." Reaching out into the air, she went through the familiar motions of creating a soft ball of glowing magic, setting it to roll over her back. "Would you like one?"

At Agronak's grateful acceptance, she leaned towards him, plucking something from under his chin. After her whispered spell, she asked him to hold out his hand. A ball of light, much smaller than her own, dropped onto his palm. "Yours aren't strong enough to fly yet, so try not to throw it off," she instructed as it began to wind its way up his wrist, alternately cooling his bare skin and heating his damp clothes.

"Mine? My what?"

"Your fae," she explained. Reminding him of the strange spell she'd cast on him days ago, back in the carriage, she revealed she'd done it to wake up his energies. "You've already got tiny fae—whilloken, if you prefer—dancing on you."

He regarded the little bit of magic on his arm skeptically. It wasn't very easy to believe it had been floating around beside him, but the thought did have a certain appeal. _His_ fae.

"No," he said gently, rejecting the idea. "You don't have to make things up for me."

She frowned at him, brows furrowed as she lowered herself onto a clump of old leaves. "I would never lie about something like this."

"Then why can't I feel them? Or see them?" he asked, quickly glancing to make sure his whilloken hadn't wound its way to somewhere that could get it crushed, before sitting down on a large rock.

"Yet. You can't yet. But you will soon, I'm sure." She lay back onto the dirt, looking remarkably comfortable for someone resting in a patch of mud. "I can see them. The spriggan could too. That's why she tried to talk to you."

"He was going to sell her," Agronak grumbled, remembering Eduard's distasteful plan. "How could he do something like that?"

Cerisse laughed delightedly at his question, smiling over at him from her sun-speckled patch of ground. "I thought you hated spriggans," she grinned. "Or was that some other grey Orc trying to kill one in my woods?"

"Hmph," he grunted. "But I hadn't met any tame ones before. And you asked me not to."

"So I did. Thank you for listening." Stretching her arms out, she let out a small yawn. "It's at least another hour before we can start walking again. Would you care to learn how to talk to the ghraewaj, as over-educated mages like to call them?"

"I'd like that," he answered, feeling much better about their trip, and their mission, for the first time in days. Having Cerisse back to her normal, friendly self—well, as friendly as she got with nobody else around—was a welcome change.


	19. Ghraewaj, Nymph, and Other Beast Tongues

"Remember, if you hear this, we'll probably have to start running," Cerisse reminded him, breaking into a screeching caw.

Agronak assured her he understood. She gave him a faint smile, illuminated by the patchy moonlight. The thick clouds drifting through the sky periodically obscured one moon or the other, cycling the forest through shades of darkness.

The trek further towards the nest had been leisurely, Cerisse pausing to harvest the occasional leaf or bud, both of them moving with weary limbs. Twilight crept slowly in, overtaking them as they wound their way through the dense growth, speaking of the simple, harsh language of the creatures they were about to visit. Once he'd gotten the strange sounds down—a rasping, warbling tenor from the back of the throat—it hadn't been difficult to learn some of the words.

A soft pat on his arm as she moved past accompanied her whisper. "We're here."

Stepping out of the bushes after her, he looked around, surprised at the lack of anything he'd term a 'nest.' The ground was barren dirt, covered with large feathers and assorted detritus. Dead, thick trees, trunks so large he couldn't put his arms around them, loomed broken throughout the area. The heavy canopy of leaves blocked most of the moonlight, bringing an oppressive feel to the space, the air thick with the stink of aviaries.

Peering into the gloom, trying to see what was causing the rustling noises, his mind finally registered the fact dead trees did not normally grow leaves. As he looked up towards the elevated platforms constructed high on the broken stumps of ancient trees, a series of loud caws tore through the air, accompanied by the sound of large, beating wings.

The first ghraewaj—harpy—he'd ever seen came into view, swooping down from her perch high above to land directly in front of them. He tried not to gawk, unprepared for the appearance of the strange creature. The body was almost as big as his companion's, covered in a layer of pale feathers that petered out as they neared the bird-like legs. Large, sharp talons extended from the wrinkled skin of her feet, leading him to believe the tales that a man's arm could be crushed in their grip.

The harpy beat her wings as she screeched, stirring up an unappetizing whirlwind of moulted feathers and dried excrement with the motion. He couldn't make out all the words, but understood enough. _Go, bad, away_—it wasn't difficult to guess what she was trying to say. As Cerisse squawked back, the creature grew less excited, eventually tucking her large white wings against her side, making her look even more like some misshapen, giant bird.

Except there was no way to reconcile the creature's head with the rest of her body. He was shocked by how _familiar_ she looked. Rough gray hair crackled out from her wrinkled, weathered face. Dark eyes, appearing black in the starlight, darted everywhere as she listened, looking from them, to the nests, to the forests in quick succession. As Cerisse fell silent, the creature gave a harsh cry before flapping back up into the air.

The sound was taken up by a chorus from above, large figures of harpies appearing in the sky, a painfully loud screeching debate roiling between them as they flew around each other with surprising speed. Agronak didn't bother trying to count them, immediately recognizing they were hopelessly outnumbered should something go wrong.

Though he doubted the presence of one accident prone mage would have provided any better protection. Glancing at Cerisse she gave him a reassuring smile, looking confident about the success of their task. The smile fell a little when they both heard the first worrisome caw from above.

_Kill_—it didn't matter much to him that the words _yes_ or _no_ flew around it; the fact it appeared at all did not bode well, adding a distressing new twist to the argument in the air. One of the harpies screeched the word loudly, darting amongst the others as she tried to incite them to agree. Some took it up, others ignored it, a couple tried to snatch at her with their talons as she flew past. It was difficult to track the creatures as they circled high above, but he thought the one who had flown down to speak with them was currently crying a very harsh, very loud noise he didn't understand, a chilling sound that made him think of a battlecry.

In an instant the whirling movements of the group changed, several of the harpies ganging up to attack the murderous-intentioned one. Blood-tipped feathers floated down in twirling spirals, a gory rain of battle as talons grasped at fluttering wings.

At the soft brush of warmth against his elbow he flinched, hands automatically turning into fists, arms drawing close to defend. He'd been so caught up in the exhilaration of the attack, preparing to fight should the vicious creatures descend, he'd not noticed Cerisse lean closer. Turning to see surprised eyes, he realized Cerisse had been trying to reassure him of their safety. She gave him a weak nod as he relaxed his stance.

Flapping awkwardly, the beleaguered harpy fled towards the forest, screeching angrily back at her harassers. A relative calm settled over the group, the noisy discussion seemingly much quieter by comparison to the violent outburst. The harpy they'd spoken with swooped down to join them, dark splashes of blood blatantly apparent against the stark white of her wing feathers.

_Yes_. One short word given in response, before she flew away again, tips of her talons, still sticky with blood, carrying off a fine layer of dirt and downy feathers.

Crying out the only word that could be used in a polite fashion in their halting language, expressing everything from gratitude to happiness—_good_—Cerisse grabbed Agronak's hand and began tugging him back to the bushes. It wasn't quite a run, but she led him quickly through the forest until they were a respectable distance away from the nest.

"That went well," she breathed, leaning against a tree.

He gave her a skeptical look as he pulled an errant feather from his sleeve. "How can you trust them to leave the livestock alone?"

"They're vicious, but they aren't stupid," she answered. "I warned them about the 'light men'—mages—who'd come if they didn't stop hunting in farmer's fields." Stepping away from the trunk, she stared up to the sky, turning around on the spot as she surveyed the stars. "They'll behave for a few years before they forget, and then Rodyrick will have to send someone to talk to them again. Come, we go this way."

"Isn't the road over there?" he asked, confused she was heading west. He was sure they'd come from the south.

"It is. But that's the difficult route, and I'm tired. Let's take the easy path."

"Why didn't we take that to get here?" he grumped, adjusting the weighty pack on his back.

"Because I didn't want Eduard to know how to get to the harpies on his own. Mages are always poking about in the forests, stirring up the creatures and stepping on the plants." She frowned back at him. "They'd probably send a group of scholars with their odd theories out here, and the harpies would _not_ appreciate that. We're lucky only one of them felt like killing us tonight. Normally they're in a much worse mood."

"Really? Can't imagine that. Such charming creatures. You know, I think I used to train with one of their cousins," he deadpanned, earning a small snort of laughter from Cerisse. A sudden wondering about what his friend was up to crossed his mind—if only Synderius had seen the harpies. They'd be joking about the eerie resemblance of them to Ysabel for the rest of their days. Well, when he saw the mer next, he'd just have to tell him the story over a few mugs of cool ale, seated by a warm fire in comfortable chairs...

"Where are you?" The soft question pulled him from his thoughts to find Cerisse looking at him curiously. It was difficult to tell in the moonlight, but he suspected she was blushing. "I mean, what were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," he tossed out, "just the joys of a good rest."

Satisfied with the answer, she patted his arm. "You've certainly earned one." Now he was certain he wasn't seeing things, her cheeks dark with colour as she distanced herself from him. "We'll be back at Hawkton Court before midnight. I'm sure they'll all be glad you decided to stay on."

Watching the dirt-covered nymph guiding him through the trees, he wondered about something else. How glad was she that he was still here?

* * *

"Shove it just a bit more, lad. It's almost there...Got it! The cur's not getting free again!" Hjoldir, flush with victory, gloated at the scoundrel in question. "Think you're so clever, eh? Let's see you dig under that, ya worthless thief."

The scathing taunts sailed right over the oblivious hound's head, Dar far too interested in the stick Hjoldir waved about as he spoke. It had been an instrumental aid in helping Agronak with the hard work. The old Nord couldn't have pointed half so well without it.

"Pah, be off with ya," he grumbled, tossing it into a thicket of trees. The dog raced after it, an excited streak of brown flying over the sodden ground. From a haze of smoke, Hjoldir gave Agronak a stained grin, stem of the pipe clenched tight between a gap in his teeth. "If'n you need more training today, just search out the mutts. That's where you'll find me."

Waking up the sleeping Morag from his nap under a bush, Hjoldir walked towards the thicket, chuckling contentedly. The old dog, underbelly sopping with mud, shook himself off in an explosive huff, sending gritty streaks of dirt in all directions before trotting along after the Nord.

Searching his sleeve for a fresh spot, Agronak finally found a patch he could use to wipe off his mouth. He may not be clean, well, he had to admit he was filthy, but he'd not tolerate fur-flecked mud on his face. Maybe the leaden clouds above would finally unleash the rain Alabyval's bad knee had been promising.

He surveyed his handiwork, rather impressed with his accomplishment, especially considering the conditions of the terrain. Frustrated by the dog's continuous escapes by burrowing deeper under each successive obstacle the Nord could think of, Hjoldir had finally come up with a cunning plan to thwart Dar's unsanctioned rambles through nearby farms. Reasoning that if he couldn't build down, and that building up wouldn't make a difference, the Nord settled for building _across_.

Which is where Agronak had come in, his strength required to push the collection of boulders, trundled over to this forgotten corner of the estate by wagon, into position. Hjoldir had half-jokingly posed it as a sort of training for life at sea, something about securing cargo that broke loose in storms. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Agronak had taken him up on the offer, glad of something useful to do.

Strange how Agronak found rest so tiring, much preferring to be doing something, anything, other than endless waiting. Time was surprisingly difficult to kill when you didn't have anything to waste it on. Not that he and Cerisse weren't trying, her dragging him around for the past couple of days in a succession of trips to Tamborne, Chesterbrugh, then back again, each made whenever she could think of the faintest pretense for her to go in person, rather than simply sending a message.

Sick of saddles and bored with reading, he'd solicited chores. Evie, sweetly perplexed by his offer, had sent him off in search of Hjoldir. She probably wouldn't be too pleased if he returned to the house in this condition. After the first loss of footing, landing in the middle of a shallow puddle, Agronak had resigned himself to getting very, very dirty.

Remembering the old well by the barn, he headed off in that direction, thoughts turning to argue both sides of a delicious debate. There was no question Cerisse was attracted to him—he frequently noticed her looking at him, blushing whenever he caught her eye—but she was proving remarkably resistant to any attempts he made at taking their alliance to a more intimate level. Finding her in the study in Chesterbrugh the other day, the two of them completely alone, he'd done nothing more than lean close to her while giving her a_ look_.

But she'd reacted strongly—strangely. For an instant she'd appeared almost frightened, shocked eyes wide in her pale face, before she'd snapped at him while flushing furiously. Then she'd declared herself tired, and off to bed.

The odd thing being, the sun had still been up.

Which led him to believe with a solid plan of attack, he was almost guaranteed victory in a battle of desire versus duty. The choice he had to make was whether or not to fire that first shot.

He knew she was right; this was a very serious assignment. Distractions and emotions could prove dangerous. It'd be far safer to keep things chaste, professional, and _boring_.

It was horribly dull, simply waiting until some confluence of minds—Blades, rulers, spies, or perhaps a combination of all three—decided it was safe for him to play his small part. It had been fine in his imagination, him lying in wait, poised to act when called upon, but he'd not expected the days to stretch out so long.

And there she was, an enticing way to fill them. He'd already thought of the practicalities—they could stay in the townhome in Chesterbrugh, him warding off scurvy sailors and cutpurses as he walked her to and fro, then after the day's work, they could both enjoy the privacy of the evening. Mmm, now that was a pleasant idea, memories of those stolen kisses guiding his thoughts along...

The frigid buckets of well water served more than only the purpose of washing off the worst of the mud. Flicking out his arms, trying to air dry his hands, he wondered if shaking like a dog would help his plight at all. Fortunately the warm air rolling off the bay kept him from catching chill. He was used to cooling winds coming in from the sea, but the wind here came from the A'likr, infusing the air with traces of sunshine heat even under gloomy skies.

Walking by the well-maintained barn, he caught pure strains of melody on the breeze, seemingly from the sheep pen. Following the song, he found Ria crouching by the fence, petting a lamb through the slats with a beatific smile, creating the sort of idyllic scene of innocence old ladies loved to see imagined as a painting.

Good thing one couldn't paint sound, because as beautiful as her voice was, he well recognized the sort of tune she was crooning to the oblivious animal. "Did Hjoldir teach you that?"

"Oh!" she cried, startling the lamb away. Laughing when she caught sight of him, she shook her head. "I didn't know anyone was around. Oh, my, what happened to you? Don't let Mama see you looking like that. She'll fuss you to death."

"Really? Even if this was Gondyn's fault?"

"He did that?" she asked, her eyes popping slightly.

"No," he shrugged, "that's the point."

She waved him over with a laugh, approving heartily of the idea. "I'd wait until you looked worse. Maybe with a scratch or two. I'll even be a witness if you'd like." Stretching her arm forward, she began calling to the startled lamb, who was warily watching them from the corner. "That's Honey you scared off. She's not very bright, but she's really docile. Most lambs don't care much for being petted, but she seems to like it."

"This is where you come to practice?" he asked, finding a comfortable perch for his foot on a low board of the fence. Leaning over, he tried to call the hesitant Honey with the tsk sounds his farmers always used.

"Sometimes," she answered, looking up shyly. "Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention what I was singing. Not everyone I know approves of drinking songs." A dreamy look crossed her face as she quoted from her memory. "Hymns have great beauty, made all the more beautiful by the singer."

"Wouldn't tell a ghost," he swore the childhood oath. He was fairly sure which someone was the cause of her glazed eyes. "How is Everard?"

"Oh, he's wonderful," she breathed. "He's already written to me, and I just left yesterday! I can't wait 'til Sundas. He's working on a sermon about the important role of haircare in our personal worship of the Divines. It's very illuminating."

"Sounds lovely," he offered blandly.

"I'm sure it will be. You can come with me to hear it if you'd like," she chirped. The recalcitrant Honey returned, receiving gentle pets from two different hands in praise. "I always love listening to sermons. Well, I like listening to anyone speak. If you pay attention, you can always learn something."

"Even from fools?"

"Depends what you're looking to learn," she shrugged, standing up to peer over the fence. Ria smiled brightly as he softly stroked the lamb. "See, I told you she's the sweetest little thing."

"And what sort of things do you try to learn?"

"How people talk, of course. Best way to pick up accents and characters," she spoke to the lamb, nodding as if they were in agreement.

"For what?"

"Storytelling." Ria glanced around the yard before lowering her voice. "When I was little, I wanted to be a bard. I still love telling tales, but I don't have much of an audience around here. Honey's my best listener."

"What about your family?" he asked. With so many of them about it seemed like she'd never run short of people to practice on. So he was surprised when she laughed off the question.

"Well, let's see." She began to count them on her fingers. "Roddy is in Tamborne, Mordy is always at sea, and Wynny and Lyrrya don't visit very often. Papa will only listen if I tell it in another language—at least, until he starts correcting my grammar. Dyn doesn't have the patience for more than a joke." Ria gave him a rueful grin. "Mama's the only one who asks to hear a story, but all she likes are romantic tales with happy endings."

"Which is why you're always reading them," he guessed.

She nodded happily. "That's right! I like them well enough, but my favourite kind are...well, it doesn't matter."

"Tell me," he coaxed, curious as to her preferred reading material.

"Alright," she reluctantly agreed. "But please don't mention it to Dyn. I just know he'd be horrible about it if he found out." Reassured by his nod, she confessed. "Ghost stories. The scarier the better. I know one that'd keep you from sleeping for a week." She shivered a little. "What about you? What do you read?"

He chuckled, giving Honey a final pat. "Feels like it's been nothing but guides recently. Oh, and whatever I can find in your father's collection." Straightening up, he wiped his hand on his pants, trying to get the slick feeling of lanolin from his fingers. He casually asked about her earlier omission. "Don't you ever tell Cerisse a story?"

Ria's grin flattened out. "Reesy? No, she's too busy to listen to anything. Besides, she's a terrible audience. Too grumpy."

"I'm sure she's not that bad."

"Of course _you_ would say that," she retorted, pushing away from the fence. "She's the one paying you."

Laughing, he walked with her along the perimeter of the pen, listening as she pointed out the lambs for him. They stopped at the corner by the feed, watching the animals go about their routines, heedless of the observers. "Do I need to dress like them to get offered a tale?"

"Really?" she asked with an excited smile. "You'd like to hear one?"

He nodded. "That ghost story you mentioned-"

She was shaking her head before he could finish. "No, not that one. That's my best. I can't tell it for free."

"I don't have any gold." Seeing she wouldn't budge, he sighed. "Unless there's anything else I can offer..."

With a glint in her eye, she nodded. "There might be. I know I shouldn't ask, but I can't resist." Flapping her hands, she began whispering. "Ooh, it's so terrible, but...well, I'm willing to trade."

"For what?"

"A new song." Her voice was so faint, he almost couldn't hear her. "If you know a tavern song I've never heard, then I'll tell you the tale."

Leaning back against the fence, he looked up to the fat clouds, trying to think of something. "Hmm. I know one about a carrot-"

Ria immediately rejected it. "That's an old one."

"What about the pirate queen-"

"Please," she scoffed. "This is _High Rock_. _Every_ pirate song ever _sung _was written here. Don't you have bards in Cyrodiil?"she asked archly.

Shaking his head as he recalled the latest tune he'd heard, he smiled over at her. "How about _The Seventeen Sins of Darius_? Know that one?"

"Ooh!" she squealed, clapping her hands with joy. "What did you say the name was? _The Seventeen Syndellius_? I haven't heard of it!"

"No, _The Seventeen Sinsdariu_—uh, _The Seventeen Sins of Darius_." Catching the slip, he suddenly realized the mer hadn't avoided the question about his reward for his work in Morrowind. No wonder the song had felt so familiar. Though he'd certainly have to ask for details about the verse with the Nord twins. The s'wit had never mentioned that story before...


	20. Servants: The Unseen Helpers

Now _this_ was home.

Rather, this was the way home should be. Perfectly trimmed hedges, century old stone bricks looking as new as the day they were carved, knocker on the door polished to a brilliant shine. The dim glow of candlelight behind partially drawn curtains beckoned him inside, whispering delicious hints of every comfort.

The door swung open at his knock, guided by unseen forces. All other avenues closed off, he admired the décor as he walked towards the open doorway at the end of the hall. The cumulative effect was one of warmth—in the colours used, russet and wine; in the fabrics, velvets so soft the eye could feel them; in the regal touches throughout, opulent hints of gold and jewels used as dazzling accents, winking out their immortal beauty whenever the light caught them just so.

It was luxurious without being vulgar, elegant without being formal, a design that was neither masculine nor feminine, but equally suited for both. Sinking into the sofa, Theodyrick looked around, trying to memorize the qualities of the room that pleased him most. Wickton Manor could use some work. Ysausa never touched the place, too busy fretting about their house in town. Pity he wouldn't be in the area much longer.

It was a simple solution; so much so, he was surprised he hadn't thought of it sooner. Convinced by the reports he'd received the past couple of days—all confirming Edwistyr's sources—he'd finally come to the conclusion Edwyn had to be mistaken. But the man would be too stubborn to admit it, so simply calling this failed trip off to return to Wayrest wasn't an option. He'd have to satisfy him somehow—

The soft snick of the latch brought him back to his surroundings, sitting in a house where doors moved of their own accord. The closed door, blocking off the hall, unnerved him. It was easy enough to be lulled by the soothing qualities of the décor, but he could never fully relax when visiting. Sitting alone, even with the illumination of the candelabra and the roaring fire to bolster his spirits, it was hard to dispel the unpleasant thoughts which crept up—childhood fears re-surfacing in the dangerous world of adults.

Surely that clattering sound in the hall was nothing more than the wind in the trees. Never mind the shuffling noises; damn squirrels were always fighting on the roof. Ignore those faint, breathy groans. It wasn't anything more worrisome than drafts playing in the curtains.

Above all, never question why such a well-maintained home was as quiet as a tomb, not a twittering servant to be found.

Fortunately he was spared the task as the door swung open once more, revealing his hostess. She was as gorgeous as always, a seductive style unique to her. Black hair loose to tumble about her shoulders, full lips drawn up in a sly smile that spoke of secrets and promises, eyes...well, her eyes were something else, glowing embers a man could get lost in. "Lord Wickton. It is always a pleasure. I'm afraid Lord Yeoming won't be able to see you. He's...indisposed."

Theodyrick rose, giving a gracious bow as he played along. They both knew Lord Yeoming's _indisposed_ status was permanent. "Lady Yeoming. I'm sorry to hear that, and yet glad. Means I'll be able to enjoy more of your charming company by myself."

The kiss on the hand soon led to a meeting of lips, his mind lost in a flame of passion. Something about her drove him mad. It was impossible to think of anything but her when she was around—making her happy, sharing dark confidences, doing anything to earn her esteem. All plans, schemes, and ideas fell away when she looked at him with those _eyes_.

"Theodyrick." she breathed, disentangling herself from his embrace as she indicated for him to sit down. "I'd heard you were taking some country air. It's nice of you to finally pay me a visit."

"I'd have come sooner if you'd wanted," he quickly offered, entranced as he watched her walk over towards the sideboard. "Anything for you, Karethys."

"You are so kind." The honeyed words were spiced by the backward glance she gave him as she poured the wine, one brilliant eye peering over a smooth shoulder, almost hidden by a curtain of hair. "I'll keep that in mind." Returning with two antique goblets, she handed him one as she gracefully slid onto the seat beside him. Her free hand stroked his cheek, setting him on fire again. "But I am wondering if you had some other reason to visit, besides relieving me of a few moments of loneliness."

His mind ached, trying to tear itself from thoughts of her, back to the purpose of his visit. He had come for a reason, hadn't he? She was reason enough, but there'd been something else...a favour he wanted...

Finally recalling his plan, he nodded. "That small problem you helped me with has proven to be more persistent then I'd anticipated. It's wandering around in Menevia now. I thought your husband might be able to get rid of it."

Karethys didn't respond at first, merely sipping her wine as she stared at him. "How can it be tracked?"

"I've got this," he offered, pulling out a crumpled shirt. "There's more if necessary."

Holding the garment up towards her face, she sniffed it briefly, before setting it aside with a satisfied nod. "This will do." Smiling, she leaned in closer. "Would it have to be completely destroyed? Or could my husband have a new playmate?"

"Whichever you prefer," he breathed, bending in for a kiss. But she pulled back, giving him a coy smile.

"Soon, darling," she purred, pressing a finger to his lips. "But let's talk a bit first. Tell me about your cousin. What is he busy with now?"

Slipping back down into the decadent promises of her eyes, he began to speak. "Edwistyr's in Vanshire, doing what he always does-"

"No, dear," she interrupted, pressing herself against him as she whispered in his ear. "Your _other_ cousin. The one who wakes up next to Elysana. Tell me about him."

He gladly spoke of Edwyn. He'd happily talk of anything, so long as she wanted him to. Gods, it was insane how strongly he felt about that woman...

* * *

Sunshine winked off the blade, flashing along the length in a brilliant blaze that made him squint in defense. It highlighted the edge, honed to a satisfactory sharpness.

"We have bows if you'd like one," Cerisse offered, gravel crunching under her feet as she walked towards him. "That way you won't have to pretend."

To catch the light just right, he'd held the sword tilted up into the sky, handle close to his face, seemingly drawing a bead on Aetherius. Agronak lowered his weapon. "Going into the woods?"

She gave the basket a quick twirl. "It's empty, so I'll be fine carrying it by myself." It was tossed from one small hand to another in demonstration. "Unless you wanted to join me—"

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed, standing up from the stone bench before she could talk herself out of it. Grabbing his shield from its resting place—polished to a brilliant shine for lack of anything better to do—he fell into step beside her.

"Did you sleep better last night?" she inquired with a trace of concern as they walked through ever taller ground cover, short drifts of clover giving way to knee-high grasses as they drew closer to the trees.

"Yes, thank you." He hadn't thought he'd looked so poorly yesterday, but apparently he had to Cerisse's eyes. She'd come into the dining room, speaking of how _I just remembered I had to go_—the words dying an abrupt death as she'd stared at him, before she'd muttered something about thinking out loud. That evening, muscles still stiff from the previous day's work, he'd found the little linen travel pillow tucked into his bed, a tin of bath salts—_witch salts_, as he thought of them—set in the middle of the quilt. They'd done the trick of removing every lingering soreness from his body.

The pillow might or might not have helped with his dreams, but he had slept the whole night through, a welcome improvement compared to his rest the night before. He had still left a candle burning and his shirt pulled inside out—but then, he preferred to justify that as a way for his clothes to better air out. No other reason for it at all. Certainly not done _just in case_.

He still wasn't sure if he should be angrier with Ria, or himself. Having wasted the dull afternoon two days ago comparing drinking songs, and hearing a few of her more tavern appropriate tales, they'd had to break for dinner with the family. She'd refused to tell her ghost story until nightfall, leading him out alone to the summer kitchen for the _atmosphere_.

Maybe he could blame her—after all, she'd _known_ he was in the rose room. That was a dirty trick. How was he expected to sleep well surrounded by so many of the things after hearing her story? He'd spent the night in fitful dreams, reminding himself that while there were such things as ghosts, he certainly didn't have to worry about them appearing in his room.

She was an excellent storyteller though, and she had warned him. He was the one who'd insisted on hearing the tale. That shivering thrill of fearing the things in the dark was something he hadn't felt in decades, his last remembrance a very fuzzy one, from the time he and his mother were still living in the Elven Gardens District. He'd woken her from her sleep due to some kind of nightmare, resulting in a harsh scolding for his fear, and the hasty present of a small silver dagger. _Now you can kill it_, she'd said, _and if you're any son of mine, that'll scare 'em away._

He'd never feared the dark after that.

The warm breezes of the day disappeared as they moved deeper into the stillness of the woods, the air cool as it hung below the trees, rich with the scent of fertile earth, still humid from yesterday's rains. A new crop of wildflowers were in bloom, lavender blossoms composed of three pointed petals appearing in thick patches, like irregular rugs scattered to cover up the bare dirt floor of the forest.

Following along, he noticed the deeper they went, the slower Cerisse walked. She was searching for something, sharp eyes looking around, small frown on her face. Concerned, Agronak stopped when she did, listening hard to their surroundings.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered after a moment.

"Hear what?" she asked, tension tight in her voice.

"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing's making a sound."

Standing amongst the towering trees, he strained to hear something, anything, in this unnatural silence. But he couldn't detect so much as a faint peep from a songbird, the skittering rustle of a mouse, or even the whining drone of a fly.

He glanced sharply down at Cerisse when she tentatively touched his arm, hissing at him. "Something's wrong. The fae are hiding."

In one fluid movement his sword was at hand, shield set on his arm. As he scanned the trees his nervous companion stood close, knuckles white as she gripped the basket in a stiff squeeze.

They stayed that way for several tense minutes, Cerisse as unsettled as a startled mare, Agronak experiencing the heady feel of rushing blood as his nerves sang for expected battle. Finally the sharp snap of a twig, an explosion of noise in that depth of silence, broke the tableau.

Everything happened in a blur. Catching sight of a tusk, he tried to reassure Cerisse it was just a boar, but she wasn't in the mood to listen. Somewhere between her terrified scream, the launching of the basket towards the bushes, her remarkable leap up high into a tree, and the barest registration of the fact that a shaggy brown _something_ was moving towards him at astonishing speed, he found himself pitched into a ferocious battle.

Cerisse's cries and exhortations were nothing to his ears, of no more import than the roaring of the crowd in the Arena during a match. Brandishing his shield as he swung towards the creature, he barely noticed it was larger than him he before pain ripped screaming through his shoulder.

As Agronak whipped around, knocked about by the force of the blow. As he spun around the pain dissipated, replaced with a familiar fury-edged pulse of blood, singing in his ears, beating in his throat. Some said Orcs couldn't feel pain. It wasn't true. However, there was _something _hidden deep inside them which came out when called upon. A blind rage heedless of pain, a numbing anger that dulled the hurt along with the mind yet sharpened reflexes and instinct. As Agronak's blood was mingled, _something _about the addition of the Imperial in him altered this characteristic, enabling him to keep his mind sharp as he fought through his injuries. And always, always he had to resist the seductive urge to slip deeper into the anger, down into a mindless fury, to sink out of humanity into a veritable sea of barbarism. Orcs who sank that far in the Arena always came to a gruesome end, sooner or later. Usually when they met up with an opponent clever enough to take advantage of the blindness of their madness.

Every thought intensely focused on his opponent, eyes taking in the dull brown matted hair covering the creature's back, the tusked head, so like a boar's, the ashen skin of its stomach and hands, the razor-sharp nails at the end of each finger. He didn't bother wondering what it was—only how best to kill it.

It lunged again, leaping forward on crooked, powerful legs, claws and teeth all aimed at sinking into Agronak's throat. Ducking down, he thrust his sword up, loosing a spurt of hot blood down on his shoulders in a molten flood of scarlet heat. A strong blow caught him on the back, the creature's hind leg kicking out in retaliation as it sailed past him.

Turning the staggering shove into a roll, he whirled around, crouching low, as it regained its footing and sprung forward again, charging towards him on all fours, droplets of blood staining the flowers as they flew from the glancing wound in its side. Instinctively Agronak feinted, thrusting the sword down between the beast's shoulders as it passed by him.

The thing howled, twisting, struggling to get out of reach, the power of its movements tossing Agronak heavily to the ground. Seeing it preparing for another attack, red eyes full of fury, pain and anger, Agronak scrambled to his feet, slower than he'd wished. The creature moved so quickly he wasn't fully prepared when it slammed into him again, its nails playing a screeching melody on his shield as they glanced ineffectively off it, gouging deep rents in the cold metal.

Thrown by the tremendous force of the failed attack, he felt the solid embrace of an ancient yew as he clattered into it, his legs twisting up in the exposed roots as he landed. Rolling over to face his opponent, he was dimly aware his left leg no longer responded as it should, refusing to bear any weight. That unsettling thought disappeared when he noticed the beast was running at him, intent on finishing him off as he sat trapped against the tree.

As it leapt onto him, he took refuge behind his shield, letting the beast tear and maul at the metal, taking advantage of its inability to see him or what he was doing, thrusting his sword deep into its chest with a shout. Its clawing arms lost a bit of their strength as it howled in pain. Using all the power he could muster, Agronak shoved with his shield the beast sliding along it, guided by his sword. Rolling awkwardly Agronak pulled his sword free, swinging it high overhead.

Not halting the blow despite the beasts hands flying up to ward it off, the orcish blade sliced right through its neck, severing the head, along with two fingers and a wrist, before embedding itself into a thick root.

That was Owyn's very first lesson, right after paying attention if you didn't want to lose a limb. _If it's got a head, cut it off. That'll stop anything_.

Panting, Agronak jerked when he felt the vibration of the ground close by. Working to maintain a level of composure, he instructed his body that Cerisse wasn'tt an enemy, and it should not hurt her. The rage pressing against his mind felt incredible.

Her mouth moved but he didn't hear her words, eyes locked on her, watching her trembling hands fumbling to free his shield straps from his arm, then carefully set it to one side. Slowly, reluctantly, the deafening rush of battle finally faded, the pounding in his ears slowed then stopped, pain reasserting itself forcibly as the fury subsided.

"You killed it. You killed it," she repeated gently, voice shaking as she patted him ineffectually, staring past him at the gory remains of their attacker. He wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure him the fight was over, or if she said it in an attempt to console herself.

Trying to sit up into a more comfortable position, he groaned when rough bark chafed against his shoulder. The noise seemed to snap Cerisse back to herself. She focused on him, tearing her eyes away from the bloody mess that was once an enemy, her face so pale her freckles appeared like coal dust on snow. "You're injured. Where? How?" She asked, her voice sharp, demanding.

Eyes closed, he breathed out to try to mitigate the pain as he gently tested various muscles and limbs. "Something is wrong with my leg—feels like its broken. And it got my shoulder pretty bad. I think everything else is minor." Agronak announced hoarsely a moment later.

"I'll get you back to the house; we'll send for a priest. None of us can set bones well," she murmured, her hands lightly skimming his leg as she looked at it. Sometime during the fight his pants had torn, a long split running from the hem to the knee.

"Is the bone still under skin?" he asked, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. His right hand reached up to touch it—it felt like it was burning inside, an itchy fire crackling under the wound. She nodded at his question. "Then it's nothing to worry about. I can sleep it off."

She gave a nervous giggle as she looked up from her work, eyes widening, the smile fading when she noticed his discomfort. "What is it?"

He didn't stop kneading his bicep as he answered. "The sting is spreading-"

In a flurry of movement she pulled his hand away, leaning over him to inspect the wound. He could feel her warmth above him as she hung completely motionless, not even breathing.

"What?" he asked sharply.

Sitting stiffly back down, she gave him a grim nod. "I'm taking you to Tamarilyn. You've been bitten."

"So?" He'd been bitten by a lot of things in his career, everything from a Black Marsh scaly rat to a vicious Bosmer. His hand returned to its work of rubbing his muscles, pressing into his forearm where the fire had just taken hold.

"So if we don't get you cured, you'll turn into that!" she exclaimed, pointing towards the corpse, eyes flashing. "I will _not_ let you become a wereboar!"

He stared at the body of the beast, mind shocked into numbness. He'd heard stories of werekind, dark tales of their near immunity to everything but silver, their insatiable appetite for killing, and the relentless pursuit of whatever they hunted. But they were rare to encounter, and rarer still did anyone live to speak of it. If he'd known it was a wereboar—well, he didn't want to reflect on that, almost certain he'd have fought more defensively, which probably would've gotten him killed.

He especially didn't want to reflect on what life would be like if he was one of them.

Cerisse tugged his hand away, pressing a small glass vial into it. "Take this. It'll numb the pain."

He did, trying not to gag as he swallowed the perfumed oil down. It tasted even worse than the potion she'd give him to drink in the underbelly of the inn. "Can you find me a thick branch, or small trunk," he grunted, working his sword out from the root, "so I can make a crutch? I'll move faster-"

"No," she interrupted, unbuckling the straps holding his scabbard in place. "You'll be asleep by the time you're ready to walk. I'll carry you."

"You?" he scoffed, sure she was joking. "I thought you didn't know how to cast telekinesis."

"Useless spell," she mumbled, strapping the sheath about her waist, where it hung awkwardly, too large for her. Taking his sword from him, she sheathed it, determination setting her features into a hardened mask. "I know something better." Glancing around the space, she tugged the shield close to her, then waved off the toppled basket, almost hidden by ferns, as if it was an irritating fly. "We'll leave that. Are you ready? Oh, wait."

He watched as she used her sickle to cut a couple of strips from his ragged pants. When she went to tie one to his wrist he barely protested, mind beginning to feel mellow and relaxed, his pains somehow lessening.

"You're too tall. Your hands will drag in the dirt if we don't do this," she soothed, her explanation silencing his reservations. He marveled that the tree behind him felt so cozy, even with the bark poking into his side.

"Try to relax. This won't hurt a bit," she instructed. Placing her hands on his face, she began a whispered incantation. He felt as though he was sinking, limbs becoming increasingly heavier, like the twilight moment where sleep had already crept off with his strength, body melted into the mattress as dreams beckoned the mind to follow.

In a surreal haze, thoughts clouded with potion, power sapped from his body, he watched the trees move as Cerisse grabbed him in an embrace, pulling him away from the yew, before his view changed to the green cloth of her skirts as she slung him over her shoulder.

His last thought, that she shouldn't forget his shield, quickly drifted away into darkness as he passed out.


	21. Witches and Their Covens

The dreams were disjointed images, smoke shrouded figures dissolving into nothing, before reforming into new shapes, dark and blurry.

There was fire—a great bonfire raging under his skin, matched by the one he could see sending bursts of flame to light up waving limbs, the shadow figures' bare flesh reflecting bright orange heat as they danced to some silent rhythm.

There was silver—the silver of the moons beaming down at him, cold light which made him _yearn_, a soul-stealing sympathy flowing through his veins, sucking him towards places sun could never reach.

Finally there was grass—sun-baked wheat, dew-wet clover, sweet-smelling hay. He floated above them all, hanging in a blue perfection of sky.

It was from this dream he woke, finding himself on a simple palette made of rough linen, stuffed with dry plants. The scents of lavender and other gentle flowers perfumed the air with each rustling movement.

"You're awake," the familiar voice spoke to him in a gentle tone. "How do you feel?"

Snapping his eyes open, he looked quickly over towards his shoulder, memories flooding back to him. It was bare—bare of markings, bare of wounds, bare of cloth. Relaxing his head back down, the feel as he rotated and flexed his leg kept him from examining the break. He could tell it had already been healed.

Turning to the questioner, he smiled when he saw Cerisse. "Good," he answered truthfully. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of a strand of her hair. She'd never worn it loose before. It was thick and straight, with a strong, wiry feel. "Look at all this."

She gathered it back from her face, the ends brushing against her waist as she gave it a couple of twirls, then set the length to free itself from her ineffectual version of a knot. "The coven healed you of the wounds from the battle. They didn't do anything about your back..."

"I've got something for it," he assured her. He gingerly sat up, choosing not to brush away the helping arms which offered him unnecessary assistance. "So I'm not a wereboar?"

"No," she whispered, colouring a little when he tucked a wayward strand of hair back over her shoulder, "you're still more dangerous than that."

Some signal, not a noise or a movement, but the arrival of a _presence_, prevented him from pursuing the conversation. A woman with a face of kindness and a feel of terrible power stood nearby. The willow branches drooping down to create a sort of curtained room swayed gently when she stepped through them.

"He's awake," Cerisse offered meekly, standing as she greeted the visitor.

"As we canst see, child," the woman spoke, her voice as ageless as her face. She was unlined, but mature, neither youth nor elderly, with an attractive mien. Pale blond curls tumbled loose to her hips. Turning her attention to Cerisse, she gave her an intense stare, as if seeing into her. "Thou hast kindled. We wouldst speak with thee later. Leave us."

Her face crimson to her roots, Cerisse nodded. "As you wish, High Priestess."

The witch serenely watched the younger woman leave, with the easy grace of practiced patience. She turned her large eyes to Agronak, glassy, pale green orbs that spoke of moonlight and trees, creation and destruction. They glowed with pleasure now, removing his worries as she sat on the ground near him. "Agronak gro-Malog, what wouldst thou ask of the coven?"

"I don't follow." He shook his head, perplexed by the question. "I don't want anything."

"Thou art noble in heart as well as deed," she stated, her approval pleasing him more than he'd anticipated. "For thine brave actions, thou canst request a favour of us. The debt liest on our hands."

"No," he demurred. "You healed me. I owe you my gratitude-"

Her held up hand silenced him immediately. She shook her head. "Thou didst not seek the favour. 'Tis not thine burden to carry. Is there naught thee wouldst wish from us?"

"No, thank you." There was nothing he could think of he would ask from a coven of witches, and he was too scared to voice the desires he thought they'd be unable to grant, worried by what form it would take if they could.

She nodded at his choice. "Then accept this token. May it strengthen thine will in times of weakness."

He reached to take it from her offered hand. As she dropped something cold and metallic into his palm, her fingertips grazed his wrist.

Power and magic crackled from her, the fury of whirlwinds and the gentleness of lambs, the energy of lightning and the softness of a raindrop. He could feel all of this and more in her touch, the thrum of her magic an invigorating sensation as it crept round his heart. For an instant she was time and age, the start and finish of everything, something that could end him, then set him to stand again—newer, better. She fascinated and horrified him at the same time.

The sensations dissipated as she pulled her hand away, the small smile on her lips a beam of pleasure. The branches around them swayed, for a moment making him think _they_ were laughing, before he dismissed the notion. She rose in one fluid motion, silvery-green gown the colour of her eyes trailing over the dirt. "Fare thee well, Agronak gro-Malog. Be not strange with us—we wouldst speak with thee again."

Stammering out his thanks, he watched her leave, noting the branches parted _for_ her as she walked past. Wryly, he felt he now understood the difference between a real witch, and a mere friend of the coven.

Curious about it, he inspected the lump in his hand. It was a rough nodule of ore, a velvety black lump capped with a crown of silver, attached to a simple matching chain. Adamantium, if he wasn't mistaken.

He tucked it into the pocket of his ruined pants, before retrieving his shirt from the end of the palette. Freshly laundered and repaired as best as skill could do for it, rust coloured stains were still visible around the puckered shoulder, the missing pieces of fabric patched closed.

After his shoes were on, he stood, surprised at how well he felt considering he couldn't remember much between yesterday morning and today. He parted the branches, stepping out into a clearing. Tall spires of rock, weathered into melted mounds with age, stood spaced around in a circle. A rough stone slab rested in the middle, flanked on either side by large fire pits.

The women of the coven paid him no heed, continuing their business as he walked past them while searching for Cerisse. They ranged in age from mere slips of girls to one venerable old woman, her eyes blind with the mist of age, still somehow able to watch him in silence as he moved by.

"Come," Cerisse said from behind. She handed his scabbard and shield to him, her free hands then moving briskly to coil her hair into her usual bun. "I've much to do."

He walked after her, adjusting the straps of the sheath as he went. Half keeping an eye on the ground, he examined the shield. There were deep dents where claws had gouged into the metal, and sweeping gashes where vicious teeth scraped against it. It told the tale of a pitched battle, one he relived in every marking.

As they moved further away from the coven he noticed the atmosphere change. It wasn't getting worse, he wouldn't use that word, but each step brought them further away from...harmony. Only as he left it behind did he realize how much magic had been contained in the clearing. The air, the breeze, the sun—it had all felt peaceful, tranquil, idyllic. Now chaos crept round the edges, wind changing direction mid-blow, chill caressing ankles when they passed though the shade.

"What did Belladyvyra say to you?" Cerisse finally asked when she judged their distance far enough away.

"She told me I could ask for a favour."

"Did you?" The question was sharp, intense.

"No," he answered. She seemed to relax at his reply. "So she gave me a rock." Fishing out the amulet, he offered it to her. She took it with interest.

The adamantium dangled from its chain as she examined it, her fingers tracing the edges . "It's generous, but not overly so," she murmured. "Nothing is owed. You're in balance."

He took it back from her, accommodating her requests that he put it on. It nestled as a chill weight in the middle of his ribs. "Balance? What do you mean by that?"

She spoke of the coven's philosophy as they trekked through the forest. It had something to do with the fae—if one took too much of their power, without giving back in kind, then one was said to be out of balance. The same principle applied amongst people; it being just as wrong for a witch to do favours for free, as for petitioners to expect them without cost.

"What did I do to earn this?" he asked, grimacing a little at the odd sensation on his skin. It felt like the amulet was shocking him, but in a painless way. The muscles in his chest twitched with each miniature pulse.

"Don't fight it," she cautioned, guessing the cause of his discomfort. "Though I'm surprised you have to ask. You killed a _wereboar_."

"What does that have to do with witches?"

She laughed at the question, patting his arm with pleasure. "Witches are enemies of all unnatural creatures—werekind, vampires, the undead. They consider it their duty to destroy them whenever possible. You killed a wereboar, which always earns their esteem, but you did it in their territory, thus releasing them from the obligation. So you put them in the position of owing you a favour."

"Are there many wereboars in these woods?" he asked, searching the dark shade around them.

"No," she frowned, "none. I've never heard of any sort of werecreature in Menevia. There was a vampire ancient once, and a rather nasty lich, but no wereboars." She gave him a sidelong look. "You couldn't hear when I was calling to you, could you?"

"During the battle?" he clarified. "No, I didn't catch a word."

"It's just as well. I wouldn't have been much help." Shaking her head, she hopped over a root in their path. "I was too scared I'd hit you if I cast anything. You were both moving so fast. I couldn't do anything but watch."

"How did you do that?" Her motions had triggered a curious blur of memory. "You jumped right up into that tree when it attacked."

Cerisse nodded. "Wereboars can't climb very well. Neither can werewolves. It's my best defense against them," she said wryly. "It's a little alteration spell that helps you leap. Not as complicated as levitation, and you rise up faster, as if you were really jumping. I learnt it when I was younger—it was the only way I could get on a horse without help."

"And that spell you cast on me? What was that?"

"_Witch magic_," she answered in a low tone, twitching her fingers as Gondyn always did at the phrase. "I stole your strength. You're _very_ strong." Chuckling to herself, she reached down to pluck a wildflower from the ground. "I'm surprised you don't spend your time tossing boulders just because you can. I probably would if I was as strong as you."

"Nah, I prefer uprooting trees for fun. They make a satisfying crack when you do it, and then you can burn them in a giant bonfire."

"Hmm, no wonder the spriggans like you so much. You must smell like their cousins," she joked. Twirling the little red blossom, she dabbed it quickly on her cheeks, gave it a kiss, then threw it into the air.

"Was that a spell?"

"No. It's a kid's game—I forgot you didn't grow up in High Rock. The flowers are called love letters. You're supposed to take your love for a dance, touch cheek to cheek, then seal it with a kiss. If you throw it high enough, they say Dibella will hear your wish." She paused to pet a fuzzy brown caterpillar, hanging from a leaf like a forgotten eyebrow. "They don't say if she'll grant it."

"How did you get involved with the coven?" The prickling sensation in his skin steadily got stronger, jolts shooting all the way down to his fingers. It felt like he'd slept wrong, his nerves pinched and tingling, but without the pain.

"Oh, that was years ago," she muttered. "It's not as if they're far from us—we're already halfway home. When my parents decided to build their house they asked Belladyvyra for permission, as a courtesy. She still remembers that."

"How old is she?" The High Priestess hadn't looked that old, but Hawkton Court was built before any of the siblings were born.

Cerisse shook her head, letting her fingertips trail over the fat leaves of creeping ivy, twined high up an old beech tree. "Depends what age you're asking. If you're talking about when she was born, I can't answer that, but my grandmother remembered meeting her when she was pregnant with Mama. If you're asking about how old she is in the ways of nature, she'll tell you she's _naught but a babe_." She ran her finger down the grooves of the rough bark. "And she can look as young or old as she wishes."

"What did she give me?" he gasped out as a jolt sparked down to his toes.

"Shh, you're almost done," Cerisse soothed. "Still yourself for a moment."

He waited, feeling the pulses as they sent little tremors around his body, trying not to resist the strange sensation. Everything prickled now, hairs raising all over as he broke out in goosebumps.

Then it simply stopped, the feeling vanishing completely. All that was left in its place was a comforting hint of protection about him, as if he'd grown another layer of skin. "What does it do?"

"Close your eyes. I'll show you."

Even though he was fairly certain he had to have his eyes open to see anything, he shut them and waited. After a brief pause Cerisse instructed him to look. A glowing whilloken sat in the palm of her hand. "You didn't feel me make that, did you?"

"No," he answered, confused. "But I normally do."

"It's a focusing stone. You'll find your own energy easier to tap into, but at the same time you're more resistant to the magics of others. It's well-suited for you—you're rather vulnerable to nature magic." With a gentle puff of breath, Cerisse sent the fae to float off. It dimmed as it drifted on the breeze, getting lost amongst the trees. "It's very valuable if you wanted to sell it, but I'd counsel you against it. For you, you're better off with the protection it offers rather than the gold it could bring."

He pressed his hand over the talisman, feeling the lump of it under his shirt. At that moment, he couldn't begin to imagine what it would take to make him sell it. The way it meshed seamlessly with his magicka—he'd never felt an enchantment so natural before. Or so powerful.

"I'll need to travel to Westcastle on coven matters. It's not something I can be seen doing. Shouldn't take longer than a day or two. As long as I don't get arrested," she stated, giving him a half-smile that suggested she was only half-joking.

"Why there? Why now?" he asked, suspicious of the false lightness she wore.

"There's a book they want. I need to get it." She brushed off the questions with a wave of her hand. "It's nothing important." When he stopped walking to stare at her, she let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. It's in trade for the healing they gave you."

"But the witch told me there was no debt," he protested. Thinking on it, he realized that wasn't completely true; she'd told him the debt didn't lie with _him_.

"I asked them to heal you. If we'd waited until you woke up, you could have asked, but..." she trailed off as she began walking again. Even at the distance, he heard her mutter out the end of her phrase. "I couldn't wait for that."

"I'm coming with you," he declared, talking over her protests. "It was my life they saved, it's my debt to pay. You merely spoke for me."

"Let me think about it."

"I'm going," he stated flatly.

"We'll see." She sounded so like a mother, putting an end to childish demands. "Come, home is right up ahead. Let's find out what we're having for lunch. I'm starving."

* * *

"Psst. Psst." A soft hissing came from the hedge at the edge of the gardens. Agronak glanced over, thinking he'd see a snake slinking between the borders. Instead he caught sight of a pale blue projectile as it shot towards his chest. Bringing his battered shield up instinctively, he heard the soft sound of breaking eggshell dashing against the adamantium. "Over here, quickly."

Spotting the figure crouching behind an ornamental birdbath, he walked towards it. Cerisse, curious about his sudden change of course, followed behind. She noticed who was waiting for them. "Riraynea, so help me-"

"Shut up, Cerisse," Ria whispered, her tone a tad bitter. "Get down before anyone sees you." Popping another egg into her hollow reed, she blew it over a nearby bush. "There isn't anything in them," she confided to Agronak.

"We can play later. I need to change-" As he moved to stand Ria grabbed his arm, wrenching him down.

"You can't go in there! Mama's gone insane!" Beckoning them to follow, she crept towards a grouping of bushes, glancing around furtively.

Questioning Cerisse with a look, he received a shrug in response. They played along, staying low and moving quickly. Soon they were nestled in an empty island of space, hidden from view on all sides by the tall bushes. Grey waxy berries, looking entirely inedible, were the only sparse decorations.

"Alright, you got us here," Cerisse whispered. "What's going on?"

"Mama found out what you did." Ria shook her head as she answered. "She's _furious_. I haven't seen her this angry since Dyn got arrested for prostitution!"

"Someone mention me?" The branches shook as Gondyn squeezed into the cramped confines of the makeshift hiding place, everyone's back being pressed into by invasive twigs as they re-settled. Noticing Agronak's unabashed stare, he winked back. "It was a joke. Just a lark, really. I wasn't actually going to sell myself."

"That's not what the guard said," Ria whispered.

"Agronak, would you please explain to my sister these things happen when there's a lot of ale and a bit of betting. I just had the worst luck that night." Gondyn plucked a berry off of his shirt, flicking it up above the bushes. "I would have won, too, if that guard hadn't tried to buy me."

"And you looked like _that_?" Agronak asked, waving at the man.

"Oh, Mundus, no! We all had dresses-"

Ria supplied further explanations to the tale. "There was a _group_ of them."

"Very nice dresses, if I do say so. And these lovely wigs." Gondyn looked up to the sky, squinting at the clouds as he thought. "Though I can't remember where they came from. I think there was this odd little Bosmer with a whole chestful of them..."

"Did he have the wobbly, girly shoes?" Agronak asked, smirking at the image this conjured.

"With the buckles! That's right," Gondyn happily answered. "I was the only one who could walk properly in them. When you've got three older sisters, you learn a few things. 'Spose that's why the guard chap was so mad when he found out I wasn't really a girl."

"Understandable," Agronak offered.

"Oh, quite. I had the part down cold. All gentle and weak." Gondyn's attention focused on Agronak's ragged clothes. "Unlike my sister. What _did_ she do to you last night?" He gave Agronak a wiggling eyebrow raise, before noticing the scarred shield. "And _what_ did that?"

"Wereboar," Cerisse answered dryly.

"Is it still out there? How did you get away?" Ria whispered, glancing in fear at the bushes.

"It's dead. Agronak killed it." Between the curled corners of Cerisse's mouth, and the note in her voice, it almost sounded to him like she was proud of his victory. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the warmth of that thought.

"Killed it _dead_? How'd you manage that?" Gondyn asked, brow furrowing.

"Later, Dyn. We were talking about Mama," Ria hissed.

"No, we were talking about my brief career as a lamppost girl," Gondyn corrected.

"What happened with that?" Agronak wanted to hear the end of the story.

"Oh, it's all been settled," Gondyn answered, blowing the air out of his lungs as he brushed off the question. "Long time ago. All forgotten."

"He'll be arrested if he ever steps foot in Sentinel again," Ria supplied.

"Exile? Impressive," Agronak murmured, shaking his head. "Worst thing that happened to me was waking up in the next town over, lying in a wagon full of overripe tomatoes." He snorted to himself. "Shame none of us can remember how it happened."

"Are we done here?" Cerisse finally interrupted. "Because I should go talk to Mama-"

"No!" Both Ria and Gondyn hissed at her. Ria spoke while Gondyn gestured, pointing in various directions even though the tall bushes hid everything from view, making it look more like he was waving away a swarm of gnats. "We've come up with a plan. Dyn's got a friend he knows from university who could hide you a few days. The horses are saddled, and there's some food we nicked from the kitchen in the satchel. If you start riding now-"

"Mama!" Gondyn exclaimed with false bravado at the angry face looming above them. "We found Reesy." He pointed over at his sister with a strained smile, offering up a feeble prize.

Evie wasn't mollified. "Inside, now. _All_ of you."

They marched to the house under Evie's watchful glare, darting looks being passed amongst the siblings, Agronak trying to figure out why he felt guilty when he couldn't remember doing anything wrong. As they entered through the back doors he noticed Evie's dark look when she saw Cerisse discreetly put her muddy bare feet into slippers, but she didn't say a word.

It wasn't until she'd separated them, leaving Gondyn and Ria to wait in the library, while she took Agronak and Cerisse into Alabyval's study, did she finally start to talk.

"Cerisse Hawkton! Just what were you thinking? There is no excuse for your conduct!" she scolded harshly, hands gesturing in a flurry of anger. "Sneaking behind your family's back to do that. And not wearing any shoes, I bet! Who knows what you stepped in?" Suddenly changing tack, she grabbed her daughter in a bone crushing hug. "Praise and glory to Dibella you're still in one piece. I don't know what I'd do without you!" Just as quickly, the anger returned as she released Cerisse. "And you're determined to make me find that out, aren't you? Much more of this and you'll be burying me of a broken heart. Never a thought for your mother!"

Catching sight of Agronak's face just as he was about to protest, she turned her tongue on him. "And you, Agronak! You're supposed to protect her, not lead her into these situations! I thought you were smart enough to know better." Softening, she patted his arm. "Though I can't blame you; I'm sure it was her idea." A frown darkened her face. "Still, you should have stopped it."

"It attacked us!" he snapped back, shocked she was blaming him for the appearance of a wereboar in the woods.

"They attacked?" Evie asked, aghast at the news. "Oh, I can't handle this. Alabyval, this is all your fault!"

Pulled into it from his comfortable seat behind his desk, Alabyval didn't look as though he'd be bothered taking or denying responsibility, the man a serene rock of acceptance in the face of Evie's whirlwind emotions. "What did I do this time, dear?"

"Eragail's your friend—she taught Reesy how to speak to those things. Maybe you can try talking some sense into your daughter. Dibella knows I've tried." Evie flung her hands out in frustration as she stalked across the room.

"Cerisse," Alabyval began before switching to Orcish. His face was dark and grim, as if he was lecturing her, but the words didn't match. "How were the harpies?"

"Very calm," she answered. "They agreed to leave the livestock alone."

"Good, good," he nodded gravely. Evie glared at all of them from the corner, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "How many wanted to kill you?"

"Only one."

"Excellent," he growled, shaking his head angrily. "Your mother is ready to sell you to a slaver. She thinks you'll be safer with them."

"I took Agronak with me," Cerisse explained, pointing towards her co-conspirator. "He could have protected me. Papa, he killed a -- yesterday."

Judging by Alabyval's reaction, the word Agronak didn't know meant _wereboar_. "What, in our woods? That's impossible! It must have been a boar-"

"A boar doesn't do this," Agronak cut in, bringing up his shield. Evie gasped when she saw it, shaken by the violence visible in the cold metal.

Alabyval reached out for the shield, placing it on his desk before studying it closely. "That's unheard of." His fingers traced over the pits and grooves. "But no natural creature could do this to _adamantium_." Leaning heavily on his cane, he rose out of his chair to give Agronak a polite bow. "Thank you for destroying it before it could harm my family."

"What are you doing? What did he say?" Evie twittered, confused by Alabyval's grateful motions.

"It's all taken care of, dear," Alabyval soothed, switching back to Common as he stretched out his arm towards her, wordlessly calling her to his side. Rubbing her back to calm her, he spoke. "Reesy knows what she did was wrong. She won't run off to the harpies without telling us again." He cut off Evie's question about his use of the word _again_, nodding down at the shield. "Agronak, take that with you. I'll explain to Evie what happened."

Recognizing and grateful for the opportunity for escape, Agronak quickly grabbed the battered shield before making a hasty retreat out of the study with Cerisse. He could hear Evie's torrent of questions raining down at Alabyval as they left the room behind.

"They're alive!" Ria exclaimed when she caught sight of them. She was hiding behind a door, certainly not where her mother had instructed her to wait.

"No! Really?" Gondyn asked, his head popping up from a large woven basket on the other side of the hall. "Well look at that, they are! Oh, wait, don't tell me—you're being exiled."

Agronak shook his head at the questions, as Ria and Gondyn took turns asking for details. "Do you have to stay in your room for the next month?"

"Have you been banished from the dinner table?"

"Did she tell you to work for Hjoldir?"

"Was there really an offer from a slaver?"

Once they finally realized no punishment had been ordered, the siblings offered their awed congratulations. It was Cerisse who suggested they grab something from the kitchen, then hide somewhere out of sight, in hopes Evie would forget about the other two miscreants she hadn't yet scolded.

"Good idea...Reesy," Ria said shyly. The sisters exchanged wordless apologies in a glance as their grudges softened.

"Come on, Ri Ri," Cerisse gently teased, "I'll race you to the kitchen. Last one there has to carry the basket."

They hurried to prepare their celebratory picnic, trying not to laugh too loudly lest they get overheard by Evie. As he helped rummage for apples, Agronak mentally debated which woman's wrath he'd prefer to face alone—Evie's, or Belladyvyra's.

He found it wasn't that easy to decide.


	22. The Important Influence of the Church

Glancing in the clouded mirror tacked above the lopsided dresser, Agronak made sure his hair was smooth, his clothes neat, and his appearance satisfactory. It wasn't every day he got judged on his looks alone Even if the outcome was assured, he still wanted to look the part.

Patting to make sure he carried nothing in his pockets but his key to this shabby room, he mentally readied himself, feeling as though he was about to walk out onto the sands of the Arena, packed crowd screaming for a lengthy fight – the bloodier the better. It might not have anything to do with his mission, but he had to admit he found this side endeavor rather exciting.

It took a quick walk through the streets to reach his destination, the temple just down the road from his inn. Vines grew along its azure walls, trained into pleasant patterns by discreetly strung wire. He suspected the clergy worked diligently to ensure this would remain the most attractive building in town at any time of the year.

In the dimly lit entranceway incense fought with perfume to please the nose, the soft murmurs of gentle conversation a steady counterpoint to the sweet ring of the floating chimes bouncing against each other in the fountain. The air was hot and sticky, rendering his clothes into clinging irritations.

"Yes?" The shirtless man on guard in the vestibule greeted Agronak with little courtesy. Oiled muscles twitched as he waited impatiently for an answer.

"This is the House of Dibella?" Receiving a curt nod and a flexing of pectorals in reply, Agronak stated his business. "I'd like to join the temple."

"_You_...do?" The Breton seemed to be chewing on his tongue to keep from saying what he wanted to. "Ah...I'll have to speak to the Curate. Stay here...please."

Waiting until the man was out of sight, Agronak crept forward, peering into the sanctuary beyond the arched doorway. It was very...blue. Blue painted walls edged with white marble, blue tiled floors, blue tinted glass the feature colour of the ornate windows. A statue of a beautiful woman—probably carved as a representation of Dibella—served as the focal point of the room. Skillfully arranged flowers ringed its feet and plinth.

Though it was the skillfully covered women who caught his eyes, each a beauty, each wearing a distracting style of gown. Thin golden chains held two tantalizingly small strips of silk in place on top, their back bare down to the curve of the spine, where a clinging skirt began.

"That's him." Catching the grumpy words, he tried to focus on eavesdropping as he continued to discreetly ogle. If the chapel of Dibella was staffed with such priestesses in Cyrodiil, he didn't doubt Synderius would convert in an instant to become the devoutest of worshipers.

"An Orc," the unimpressed voice replied. "He's _grey_. Is that supposed to be attractive to them?"

"Who knows?" came the gruff answer. "Doesn't matter. We've got to take him."

"Well, at least he's big." A heavy sigh punctuated the muffled words as the unseen speaker turned away. "Lysorya's on novice duty today. She can look after him."

Stepping further back, waiting for the steward to return, Agronak mentally ran through the plan. Even though she'd said they'd accept him, he felt relieved it had gone so smoothly. After the treatment he'd received in Wayrest it had been a surprise to hear the temples of Dibella in Menevia were so welcoming to Orcs.

According to Cerisse, the main temple was located in Uptower, a large city at the base of the mountains, part of the land Elysana ceded to Gortwog. The church, never as influential as it wished to be, chose to seize the unique opportunity to meddle in both Wayrest's and Orsinium's politics. Apparently it worked diligently at cultivating a following amongst the inhabitants of the Wrothgarian Mountains—in a brilliant ploy, it had declared all Orcs blessed with the favour of Dibella.

Though the strategy hadn't worked quite as planned, with most Orcs continuing to worship in the manner of their fathers, and most Menevians displeased at the relaxed standards of admittance. At least, they argued, only the pretty Orcs should be allowed in. After all, only the finest looking Bretons qualified for temple duties.

"Welcome, Brother." The muscular Breton gave him a less than enthusiastic spiel, words streaming out in a flat monotone as he hurried to be done with this dull business. "By the grace of our Lady you are worthy to work in Her service. Enter into Her sanctum and offer up radiant praises for the bountiful blessings She has bestowed upon your handsome countenance. Mind the step."

Agronak found the warmth even stronger in the blue saturated room. No wonder the giggling ladies, trading whispered opinions on his charms, looked so comfortable in their lack of clothes. A voluptuous blonde, familiar in a way that made his mind itch, glided her way over to join him.

"Greetings, Novice. Dibella's blessings upon you." A brilliant smile accompanied the warm words. "I am Lysorya, your guide to our chapel. Come, we shall speak of how best you can serve our Lady."

"Thank you, but I'm supposed to be meeting a friend..." Where was Cerisse? He was sure it was the correct hour, and there was only one House of Dibella in Westcastle.

"It's me," the faintest whisper hissed up at him. He stared at the woman before him in shocked recognition, the memory finally tugging itself out from its dusty corner. Ghost images of sticky tables and drunken sailors arranged themselves around her, this devotee of Dibella in an inn named after a deceased gnome. She spoke loudly so as to be overheard. "That must wait. You are to be initiated into the ways of our Lady. Please, follow me."

She was already walking towards a dimly lit hallway, making him hurry to catch up with her. He waited until they were in relative seclusion before daring to whisper. "You were at the Dead Gnome. I thought you were a prostitute."

"_I_ am an Acolyte," she corrected, smiling at the lady who passed by them, still playing the part of the temple guide. "After you've risen in the ranks, you too can offer yourself to the pursuit of harmony in its physical form."

"What, really?" His thoughts were distracted by seductive imaginings. "There really are temple prostitutes? Do you do that?"

"Alas," she replied, hardness in her voice, "travel and duties do not permit me the luxury of a personal worship space. My time in the temple is therefore spent on other tasks."

"Pity," he murmured, mind still trying to reconcile the beguiling enchantress before him with the charming nymph hiding beneath. Certain they were alone, he couldn't resist touching a soft curl. "It feels so real. Hmm, do those...?" His voice trailed lower as his eyes slid down.

"Do not forget who sent us here," she hissed, tossing her head so her hair tugged out of his grasp. "She would be sorely vexed to hear of any misbehaviour."

"Sorry," he quickly mumbled, chastened by the reminder of Belladyvyra. He tried to reassure himself this was the same Cerisse, albeit in a different package. A damn tempting package, almost as if she'd designed it for maximum effect. Good thing Synderius wasn't around to—

The worrisome thought slipped out on his tongue. "When you met my _friend_," he hedged, sure she wouldn't appreciate him naming the mer aloud, "you two didn't...?"

"I do not get involved with business associates." The cold answer was snapped over her shoulder. "Though I'm surprised you ask. Your friend didn't seem the type to pay for _companionship_."

"He's more likely to _get_ paid," Agronak joked, trying to lighten her mood. She seemed to have taken his initial misconceptions of her profession rather personally. "You should get him to join the temple. They wouldn't need to solicit for alms if you had him on staff."

"Shh," she hushed him, stopping near an open doorway. Her voice picked up as she resumed what he assumed was the usual tour. "The apothecary is renowned for the many aids and tonics it provides to those who have not yet been graced with the favour of Dibella."

He feigned interest as she listed them all, rather astonished by how many different beauty products existed. He couldn't begin to imagine what a person's hair would look like if they used them all at the same time. Not natural, and probably not attractive either.

The detailed listing over, she guided him down the hall. "Prepare yourself, Novice. The Lady's showers of blessings await to baptise you into your new life." She rummaged through some cupboards built into the wall, whispering to herself at the edge of his hearing, reminding him to give her his key. They made the exchange as she handed him some folded cloth. "Put these on, then you will join me in the pools."

He nodded, retreating behind the fabric curtain into a small dressing room. Brightly polished mirrors covered the walls, making him shake his head at the vanity of the temple. Examining the garments, he quickly identified the short robe, but the two rectangular pieces of fabric, strings attached to the ends, puzzled him.

"Um..._Lysorya_," he hissed, poking his head out to find her reclining against the wall in an attractive pose, smiling at someone down the hall. "What do I do with these?"

The answer displeased him almost as much as her giggles. Retreating back behind the curtain, fuming to himself, he quickly stripped off the clothes he'd purchased yesterday for the purpose of being left behind. He struggled with the string, trying to knot it to the right lengths.

Surveying the results in the mirror, he growled before tossing on the robe. Thank the Nine it wasn't a windy day; he'd be arrested for sure otherwise. He'd lost more than a few pieces of his armour in the Arena, but he'd _never_ worn anything like this before. Talos have mercy—he was supposed to walk back to the inn dressed in nothing but a loincloth!

At least he knew what she'd meant when she'd told him the guards wouldn't possibly suspect him of stealing the book. There wasn't much he could think of he could smuggle under the small flaps of fabric. Pondering the possibilities, he pulled back the curtain to find her waiting, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Ready?" she inquired, not pausing for the answer. They passed through an ornately carved doorway, heavily adorned with representations of the female figure, into the baths. A tall statue of Dibella rested in the middle of a large, shallow pool, arms outstretched with hands cupped together, water flowing from her fingertips in a gentle arc. Temple members rested on the steps leading down to it, both men and women alike dressed in similar loincloths.

The display of flesh failed to distract him. After enough time in the Arena, he'd seen it all. More than he'd wished—memories of Ysabel demonstrating her polishing technique on Owyn still haunted him in quiet moments.

"What do I do?" he whispered as she guided him to a lower step, warm water lapping against his toes. He knew she would unleash a distraction soon, but she hadn't mentioned what it would be.

"You're already doing it, don't worry," she whispered back as her fingers clutched the shoulders of his robe. He heard her speak loudly, almost as if addressing the others. "Step forward, Brother, and commit yourself to our most beautiful Lady."

One step was all he took, arms sliding out of the robe to leave it behind in her hands, before she let out a piercing scream of terror. He whirled around automatically, shocked at the sound, to hear it taken up by the others in the room.

"Swamp blister!" The name of the disease was shouted in horror, loud splashes and wailing voices ringing off the tiled walls as the onlookers scrambled to flee. Cerisse moaned dramatically, holding her hands out, as if they were crippled in pain..

She gave him a wink as she shuffled by. "Buy me some time. Wander the temple a bit—try to get them all out." Wailing for all she was worth, she ambled into a distant hallway.

Muttering several dark oaths, he did as she wished, stomping grumpily in and out of rooms. Most of them were already empty, the occupants having fled in advance of his presence. So this is why Cerisse had asked so many questions about his back on their journey to the Mouse and Jug Inn. Ruefully, he mused if she'd mentioned her idea to him, he probably wouldn't have gone along with it.

"Get out!" The Breton he'd met at the entrance, now clad in a bizarre assortment of garments—a mishmash of both men's and ladies' clothes gathered in great haste, wrapped about him as a sort of protection—shouted at him with more confidence then his posture displayed. He shrank back when Agronak approached. "You have defiled the House of Dibella with your curse!"

"What? No," he reasoned, turning around, "look at it. It isn't what you think."

"Stay back and follow me!" The garbled cry as the steward ran towards the exit drew Agronak outside. The men and women of the temple waited out in the street, standing apart from each other lest one of them was already afflicted with the highly contagious, scarring plague.

"What is going on here?" An older lady, the effects of time on her face diminished through skillful tricks, and perhaps a bit of magic, pushed her way over towards Agronak. "What is everyone twittering about?"

"Matriarch, don't!" The guard warned, trying to prevent her from getting any closer. "He's got swamp blister."

"Where?" she asked sharply, looking Agronak up and down. He turned around with a heavy sigh, mentally cursing Cerisse's cleverness as the frightened clergy gasped. Curious onlookers, attracted by the commotion, began to chatter loudly about everything they saw; not all of their talk focused on Agronak's physical state, as the distraction of the barely clad—or entirely bare—beauties of the temple merited their colourful admiration.

"Fool! That's not swamp blister." She shouted scathingly at her subordinates . "All of you, return to the temple. We shall discuss the disharmony of this chaos later." They filed past her with guilty faces, still carefully keeping their distance from Agronak. The chapel leader turned her angry glare to him. "As for you, I suggest you see a healer—somewhere else. Do not disturb our peace again."

He gave her the barest of smiles, more a grimace than anything else, before marching back towards his inn. A familiar old woman, ignored by the crowd, clutched his arm as he walked past, giving him a dotty leer. "Eh, sonny, I'll fix you up for a bit of ale. 'S thirsty work."

"Leave me alone," he growled, snatching his arm away as he palmed the key. Still in a foul mood, he wasted no time in getting back to his room, getting dressed, and getting far away from Westcastle.

* * *

The walk to the Mouse and Jug Inn soothed him, tension easing from his shoulders as he traveled along the quiet road. Small birds, with a black stripe across their eyes like bandit masks, peeped out a friendly greeting when he passed. Each step away from that debacle dimmed the anger he felt towards Cerisse. By the time he reached his destination, he was merely peeved at her too clever plan.

"The Lady's not back yet," the pleasant woman behind the counter told him as he arranged for a room. Cerisse's loud instructions to Agronak yesterday, about her plans to tour an ancient shrine to Druagaa, while he visited Westcastle, had obviously sunk in. "Must still be out at them flowers. Scary place, that," she added confidentially. "They say sometimes witches go there."

"Then you'd better stay clear of it," he answered, "it's best not to get involved with them."

She nodded at his sage advice before asking if he wanted dinner. Responding he'd be satisfied with anything she thought good—barring saltfish—he wished her a pleasant evening before heading off to his room.

Once settled , he pulled out the sheafs of parchment crammed in his bag and returned to deciphering Choctam's latest proposal. A courier from the Mages Guild—thankfully not Eduard—had arrived with it while he'd been scolded by Evie. He still wasn't sure what Alabyval had told her, but when she'd eventually seen him again, after an afternoon spent hiding with the Hawkton siblings, she'd been so effusively sweet to him he wondered if it really was possible to be fussed to death.

He'd spent yesterday evening alone in the cheap inn in Westcastle, going over the numbers with frequent references to his old notes, and now felt fairly certain he'd caught the 'accidental' slips of the wily Redguard's quill. With the math finished off, he tried to navigate the labyrinth of clauses shrouded in obtuse legal language. Painstakingly, he attempted to translate it section by section, sometimes line by line, writing down what sense he could make of it on blank parchment. It was maddening—if there were only two of them involved, why did the document keep referring to the party of the first part? Why couldn't it simply say 'Choctam' and be done with it?

Struggling with a particularly confusing paragraph, his concentration was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. He gladly accepted the dish of roast venison, the tantalizing aroma drifting through his room as he carried it back to the desk. Determined to finish the line he was working on before taking a break, he returned to the perplexing sentence. The beginning few words confused him as badly as the rest of it—if he didn't disagree to negate something, did that translate into his agreement?

After a bit of puzzling, he'd finally worked out it meant he was agreeing not to cancel something, when he heard another knock at the door. He gruffly called out that it was open, thinking the maid had forgotten to give him something with his meal.

"How 'bout that spot of ale, dearie?" The crackled question floated over to him as the door creaked open.

"Oh, it's you. Come on in ," he mumbled over his shoulder, pointedly trying to ignore Cerisse as she joined him. An age-spotted hand lightly patted his shoulder.

"I came to ask if you wanted dinner—" she began after a moment's hesitation. He tried not to look at her, certain she was scrutinizing him for clues as to his mood.

"Not hungry." The gruff answer slipped out before the question could be finished.

"Oh," she murmured, falling silent for a while. Rallying, she tried to draw him out. "I got the book. They don't even know it's missing. Belladyvyra will be pleased."

This received a nodded grunt in reply. Even though he was hopelessly mired in parts and parties, he pretended he was being productive.

"Agronak, is there something the matter—"

"I don't like looking foolish," he snapped, staring up at her wrinkled face. "You should have asked."

"...with your meal," she finished quietly. Sinking onto the bed, she sighed as her fingers plucked at the quilt, her eyes looking everywhere except at him. Her explosion of frizzled grey hair settled into smooth, dark tresses as she let the years dissolve away, looking once more like the Cerisse he knew.

Glancing up, she matched his sullen glare with polite poise. "I'm sorry," she offered sincerely, "but I didn't know how well you could act. I thought it would be safer if you didn't know what would happen, so your surprise would be genuine. It wasn't my intention to hurt your feelings."

"I'm not hurt," he blustered, mollified by her explanation. "Just...annoyed. Mildly," he quickly qualified, "mildly annoyed."

Rising with a smile, she stood beside him again, her eyes skimming over the cluttered desk. "Then I apologize for annoying you. It mustn't be an easy thing to do, if you've got the patience to work with Choctam." Emboldened by the small snort of amusement she got out of him, her hand casually strayed towards the nearby tray. "If you aren't hungry..."

Mentally cursing himself for his hasty declaration, he grudgingly waved for her to take it. She grabbed it with delight, carefully settling herself on the bed, ready to begin her meal. "Thank you. Lysorya didn't get a chance to eat all day."

"She does have all those temple duties to tend to," he quipped. Abandoning the parchments in favour of a little company, he watched her attack the meal with relish. "How do you do that?"

She shook her head, mouth full of venison. After hastily swallowing it, she answered. "I can't tell you how I change shape. It's a sworn secret. I'd face the wrath of the coven if I shared it." She focused on the meat, cutting off another piece. "Though I can tell you I can't do it all the time, and I can't be Lysorya forever. I'd be out of balance."

"How do you balance something like that?" he asked.

"Morgolda, the crone," she replied. "I've got to spend twice as long in her shape. If I don't, I'll lose the ability to change." Paying more attention than necessary to the meal, a slight blush crept over her face as she slyly asked a question. "Lysorya is your favourite form, isn't she?"

"No, I wouldn't say that." His answer made her give him a darting look, her cheeks flushing when she noticed he wasn't joking. "But I did like her gown the best."

She laughed at that, accidentally inhaling a piece of her dinner when she snorted, resulting in a small coughing fit. Recovering, she spoke of the work she'd done for the House of Dibella, performing tasks so she'd risen high enough in the ranks to allow her access to most of the temples. It was invaluable in assisting the coven.

"Was the _perfidious document_ where she said it'd be?" The turn of phrase witches favoured greatly amused him. He and Cerisse had lightly joked about Belladyvyra's term for the slanderous book on the journey yesterday.

She frowned, nodding over at him. "It's the worst I've seen." In between bites, she mentioned some of the twisted lies about witches she'd found in the book. From what he'd been told, generations ago the House of Dibella, jealous of the faith the common folk placed in witches, had begun an intensive campaign to destroy their reputation and drive them out of High Rock. Creating tomes filled with propaganda, under the guise of temple teachings, was only one of their many methods.

Except the witches, seizing on opportunity, frequently asked favour of their petitioners to counteract the schemes of the church. It was an uneasy, simmering situation, one side or the other occasionally resorting to more dramatic methods to achieve their ends.

"That was delicious," she declared, daintily placing her utensils on the tray. She brought it back over to the desk, lingering beside him as she peered at his parchments. "You must be doing exceptionally well bargaining with Choctam. He's using his best tricks."

"You understand this?" Upon her revelation that she did, he insisted she take the chair and explain it. Her protests that he should have someplace to sit were silenced when he tugged the bed close enough he could perch beside her.

She guided him through the terms and conditions, quill scratching out unwanted restrictions, adding in missing protections. When she reached the paragraph he'd been struggling with she laughed, then congratulated him. Choctam had included his most complicated, confusing clause, the one he reserved for truly worthy adversaries. Apparently, hidden away in the tangled web of double negatives, it said Agronak agreed that should any of his goods not be sold by Choctam, then the Redguard wouldn't have to pay for them.

"Where did you learn this?" he finally asked, impressed by the business savvy she possessed.

"Oh, where didn't I?" she laughed. "Between my father, my brothers, and my tutors, I've probably heard it all. And if I didn't learn it from them, I've probably seen it while running my company."

"Company? You never mentioned that before."

"I took you to my office," she pointed out. Setting the quill down, she turned to face him, arm leaning on the back of the chair. "Black Rose Supplies and Sundries. We all have companies—where do you think I get my money? My parents?"

"I never thought about it," he admitted.

"No, you don't, do you?" Her tone was warm, almost admiring. She always appeared to be pleasantly surprised when he did or said something to show he didn't think of her as wealthy. "We were each given a lump sum and a lot of guidance when we turned eighteen. I started out with importing, but over time it changed into a silent investment firm. Nobody realizes it, not even the partners, but I'm secretly partial owner of half the tailor shops in Wayrest."

"Fashion? You didn't strike me as the type."

"I don't do it for the clothes," she quickly clarified. "It's for the information. The nobles know better than to speak in front of the servants, but they still forget about the seamstress at their feet, or the clerk behind the counter. It's amazing what they'll talk about when they're double-booked for dress fittings."

"Ah." Certain he'd figured her out, he pointed at her. "That's how you got tangled up in all this, isn't it? You invest in the shops, the tailors give you information in return, then you send it off to the Blades."

She shook her head softly. "No, that part came after. It was during a favour for the coven that I met one of their agents."

"Really?" Agronak frowned lightly, musing on the concept. "Hmm, I'm not surprised Belladyvyra knows a Blade or two—"

"Oh, no!" she chuckled. Shifting her legs in front of her, one knee softly brushed against his as she settled herself. The gentle warmth of the touch remained while she spoke. "This was years ago. Almost five, now," she murmured to herself, before snapping her attention back into focus. "I didn't understand the nature of the favour, so I made a foolish mistake. There were witnesses."

"What did you do?" he asked, intensely curious as to why she squirmed a bit as she told her tale.

"It was a delivery—it doesn't matter," she waved the question away. "Point is, the guards were looking for me, and I had no idea how to handle it. My parents weren't aware I was in Menevia, I didn't want anyone knowing I was connected to the coven, and, I'll admit, I was scared about going to jail. So I did the first thing I could think of." A rueful smile crossed her lips as she remembered, her eyes replaying past events while she gazed absently at the window. "I ran to the worst inn in town, hoping to find someone who'd know how to smuggle me past the guards."

"Good plan."

"No, it was a horrible idea. Where do you think the first place is they look for fugitives?" She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, effectively hiding her face as she recalled her naivety. "Fortunately, I was found by somebody else first. I don't know why I trusted him, but I ended up following him to a rundown room in that nowhere inn."

"Second floor?"

"Third," she answered, beaming with pleasure he'd remembered. "It was the second bedroom." She shook her head again, amused by her memories. "I still can't believe I didn't go running for the guards when he told me to take off as much as I could as fast as I could before joining him in bed. Yes," she quickly added, answering his unspoken question, "I did take my dress off, but my shoes were still on when the guards knocked on the door. And no, nothing happened. Other than both of us getting out of trouble. He's the sharpest man I've ever met—instead of seeing one fugitive Breton and a suspicious Redguard, all they saw were two interrupted lovers. I spent the whole time they stood in the doorway praying they wouldn't notice my laces peeking out from the blankets."

"It wasn't Baurus, was it?" A vague recollection of her speaking his name a long time ago came to mind.

"You know him?" she asked with a delighted smile. "How is he? I've not seen him since—it's only notes."

"He's doing well," Agronak replied while absently scratching his shoulder. He'd only spoken with the man on a few occasions, but he'd always struck him as a friendly sort. "He recruited you?"

"As a source, yes. There wasn't anything else to do but talk as we waited for morning. By the time the sun came up everything was...different."

The conversation lapsed for a time, Cerisse drifting away in her thoughts, Agronak trying to discreetly tend to an itchy flare up on his shoulderblade. She came back with a start when his knee knocked against hers, an accidental result of a desperate contortion.

"You said those were bug bites, but they're still bothering you?" Reaching forward, she grabbed the shoulders of his shirt, pulling them towards her. "Let me take a good look at them. And I want to see this salve you mentioned. It shouldn't be taking this long for them to heal."

Hearing the determination in her voice, he tugged off his shirt before dragging his pack closer to fish out the tin. " This is it."

"Oh, Agronak," she murmured, a strange cross between pity and amusement on her face as she stared at the label. Grabbing his shoulder, she ordered him to twist a bit so she could poke at the scaly patches on his flesh.

"That itches." The gentle touch of her fingertips teased the skin, inciting it to a fiery irritation.

"Of course it would." She pushed him away, scolding him gently. "_Master Xyr's Fire Petal Balm?_" she demanded, brandishing the tin at him. "Were you trying to _burn_ off your back? Only a _Dunmer _could withstand this."

"The s'wit!" He cursed the mer—leave it to Synderius to give him a healing salve that had the opposite effect on an Orcperial! "What are you doing?" he asked when she got up, heading to the window.

"Getting rid of it," she grunted, struggling to pull up the stubborn pane of glass. The world outside was nothing but darkness, light of the candles driving away the night.

In a couple of long strides he was behind her, reaching around to grab onto the handles. The window shuddered open, letting in the cool fragrance of the damp night air. "There you go."

"And there you go," she responded, flinging the tin through the opening. She turned around, her gaze skimming over the arms blocking her path, before slowly rising up the length of his chest. Holding his eye, face flushed a brilliant crimson, she whispered to him. "You can thank me now, if you like."

In that moment he knew she would stay if he wanted. He could touch her, hold her as long as he pleased, because this time she wouldn't run away.

Except hesitation seized him, inaction destroying the opportunity. He watched as her blush turned to embarrassment, her head ducking out of view as she slipped past his arms, her confused goodbyes as she left the room. Through it all he was restrained from pulling her back by her own words, understanding that because she'd asked him to, he'd left her alone.

It did nothing to ease the regret he felt as he stood by the desk, vowing to himself he would not repeat his honourable mistake next time. The nymph had left him ravenous and frustrated, mentally damning himself as he bitterly replayed the tempting instant in his mind.

And to make matters worse, his stomach started in on him, reminding him he was also hungry for dinner.


	23. Select Receipts of the Choicest Dishes

"Theodyrick."

Startled, he twirled around, halting his inspection of the glass decanters on the sideboard. He'd noticed the amber tones of brandy, the garnet hue of fortified wine, and the deepest red of something viscous and murky, a substance he'd avoided studying too closely.

"Karethys. I trust all is well?" Her summons so soon could only mean good news. A faint tink came from his pocket as he walked towards her, a pair of grand soul gems rubbing shoulders, a surprise gift of her favourite baubles.

"No." Her eyes, her enchanting eyes, were now horrible to look at, two burning pools of fire flashing with anger. A brilliant sting crossed his cheek, blood trickling from the cuts her nails created, shallow reminders of the fury of the slap. "You didn't say he was a Grand Champion." She snarled softly, her features contorted in an ugly parody of her usual serene beauty.

"Everyone knows that—"

Another whip sharp crack across his face, this time from the other hand. "You _forgot_ to mention he was in Tamarilyn."

"Near the coven?" he spluttered, mentally reeling from the blow. "What do witches—"

"Alabyctor is dead." Karethys, a frightening combination of control and anger, stepped closer. He backed away, anxious to keep his distance from the dark vortex of magic sparking between her fingers. Her voice drew feathers of ice up his spine. "I wonder, do you know how hard it was to train him? Surely not, or else you would not have squandered his gift. Theodyrick, _darling_, will you help replace him?"

"Karethys," he soothed, desperate to calm her wrath. "I'll do anything you want." He bumped against an unexpected chair, dull pain ringing in his calf. "You need a new pet? I'll get you one." Stalling for time, he made a feeble joke. "Frostfire, take Edwistyr. He only comes out at night anyway."

To his surprise she stopped advancing, wicked light dancing in her eyes. "Hmm..."

"But not yet," he hastily added. Much as the man irritated him, he didn't want to find out what would happen should Edwistyr remember why and how he was turned into werekind. That, and he still needed his cousin's help. "That problem—_my_ problem," he quickly emphasized when a violet spell of evil intent flared in her palm, "is still around. He'll take care of it. With me. _We'll_ take care of it. You don't need to worry about anything."

"Alabyctor is dead," she repeated darkly. "My husband has died because of _your_ problem. How much more am I to suffer for _your_ mistakes?"

"I'll make it up to you," Theodyrick gasped, shocked when the wall pressed against his back. "I give you my word I'll make it better. Karethys, _please_." The word dragged out in a wheedling whine, not the tone he'd wished for, but the only one he was able to make with fear slithering through his chest.

"Another favour?" She wore a cruel, cutting smirk. Her body was frighteningly close now, blocking off his escape. Not that he thought he could escape far, trapped in a house where doors opened according to their own whims. He could smell her, the heavy perfume of roses she wore never quite able to mask that damp, mildewed scent underneath, a fragrance which always reminded him of visits to his family's burial crypt. At the moment, her smell horrified him.

"Why should I grant it? There are so many other ways you could serve me, for so _long_ a time..." she let the idea trail off into the air, a barbed threat lying between them.

"Darling, why do you stare at me so?" she suddenly asked, the edge to her smile softening as she leaned against him. He flinched when her finger brushed his injured cheek. "Forgive me. It's so distressing to think of the future, stuck alone in this old house. I'll miss the company."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he stammered. Revulsion churned in his stomach when she licked her finger clean in unthinking habit. The sticky trail of blood on his cheek pulled at his skin when he spoke. "Very sorry."

"As you should be." Again, a worrisome pulse of light flared in her eyes. But it disappeared quickly, replaced with something warmer, something intriguing, something _irresistible_. Cupping his jaw, her thumb covering the dimple of his chin, she drew his face closer to hers. "You are so kind. You'll keep me company, won't you, dear? You'll warm my bed and tell me stories when sleep eludes me? You'll work to make me happy, yes?"

The part of his mind that wanted to say _no_, to end their affair, was defeated in a brief struggle by the overwhelming forces of the section screaming _yes_. It gasped out one last warning, borrowing memories of Edwistyr's voice to shout out about the folly of getting involved with a necromancer, before falling silent, trampled in a mad rush of thoughts about how incredibly _charming_ the woman was...

* * *

The ride back to Hawkton Court was warm in temperature, chilly in atmosphere. Cerisse spent most of the journey a bit ahead of him, far enough away to make conversation impossible.

He ignored the scenery passing by, mind unable to stop reliving the memories of last night, the way the tongue finds a loose tooth impossible not to play with. It wasn't only Cerisse's comment about not getting involved with business partners, or the way she'd struggled so hard to distance herself from him when he'd chosen to stay on and help, which had prevented him from acting.

A dark figure, this unknown entity, cast a shadow over her affections. The mysterious Eddy, the man she didn't seem able to resist, rankled him greatly. A competitor he could handle, but how could he fight off a man made of shadows? How could he land the winning blow when there wasn't anything to hit?

Turning over phrases and words, rejecting them for sounding trite or domineering, he pondered how best to explain the situation to her. They both knew what they were feeling, what they wanted, but he wasn't sure how to discuss it. _So, you think I'm sexy?_ didn't seem like an appropriate way to start the conversation.

Nor did, _Who is Eddy, and what does he mean to you?_ That probably wouldn't work well on her, especially considering the way she'd gone off on Ria simply because Agronak had said the name. No, knowing Cerisse, she'd shut him up, seal him off, then run so far away he'd never get her back.

"Ahoy, lass! Did'ja pick the prettiest flowers?" Hjoldir's greeting, accompanied by the excited barks of the hounds, made him realize they'd arrived at their destination. The old Nord gave them both a friendly wave as they passed by, before threatening a keelhauling to the dogs if they didn't shut up.

The horses didn't need much guidance to get them back to the barn, already knowing the way, their ears perking up at the promise of lunch. He helped her stable the animals, straw crunching underfoot as they worked.

"I'm going to—" she began to say.

Seizing the opportunity of privacy, he grabbed her, pulling her close, her toes trailing against the ground as he lifted her up, all the better to claim her with an intense kiss. Before she could protest he whispered in her ear, one finger pressing over her mouth, keeping her silent. "We both know what's going on. But you need to know that I don't share."

He set her back down with such speed she let out a breathy squeak of surprise. He took a moment to revel in the sight of her, her slightly swollen lips open as she wordlessly caught her breath, her face showing the conflict within as her desire to scold fought with her need for more. Giving her a _look_, he turned, leaving her to contemplate his meaning. She was a clever one—surely she'd be able to figure it out.

Feeling rather pleased with the way he'd handled it, he quickly covered the distance to the house, joining Ria and Dyn for lunch. It wasn't until he was declining an invitation to help Ria write a letter to her pretty priest—now that he knew what went on in the House of Dibella, he felt both curious and a little worried about how far her beau had risen in the clergy—did he wonder what had become of Cerisse.

Evie let him know she'd gone to the coven, Evie herself rather flustered to find him still in the house, having been left behind. She began to fuss about the dangers of the woods, Agronak doing his best to reassure her of her daughter's ability to handle herself, before the sight of Gondyn distracted her. She hastily excused herself, chasing after her son to remind (and charm and scold) him about some neglected chores.

Left without a boss, Agronak took advantage of the sunlight soaked day, walking aimlessly through the gardens and fields, his route somehow taking him towards the edge of the forest in the direction of Tamarilyn. He observed the outlying trees, standing like silent sentries guarding the secrets of their woods. Satisfied none of them were moving, or about to giggle, he found a bright patch of clover to use as a seat.

The feel of the little lumps in his pocket brought a grin to his face. Deciding to give it one last attempt, he pulled out the turquoise, musing that perhaps the closer proximity to its charging place in the forest might help his meditations. He began to think of water, trying to conjure up images of it to play against the backdrop of closed lids—from raindrops to waterfalls and everything in between. His concentration was solid, his mind peaceful, and his spot comfortable. With everything falling nicely into place, his nerves tingled in anticipation, waiting to report back tales of success.

Unfortunately the only thing they told him was the clover was full of dew, and damp seeped through his pants. Stubbornly he continued, holding out until he could stand the clinging cold no longer, before rising up with a snort of contempt. What exactly did he think would happen?

"Very good."

He whirled in surprise to find Cerisse watching him with a bright smile, leaning comfortably against a nearby tree. "No," he replied, "it's no good. I can't get it to work."

Her arched brow and curled lip clearly visible as she walked over to him, her amusement being held in check as she stared down at the crumpled clover. The plants struggled to straighten themselves again after being crushed by his weight, the movement as the stems unbent reminding him of storm-tossed waves.

"What do you call that?" she asked, pointing down at the ground.

"Clover?" He wasn't sure what she was after, but that obviously wasn't it.

Chuckling softly, she knelt down, plucking a dew-misted plant. She rose, grabbed his hand, and placed it in his palm. "What do you feel?"

"Not much," he replied, the stem weighing almost nothing. "It's a little wet."

"Precisely," she beamed. "Don't you see?"

"No, I don't see what that has to do with anything," he sighed. "All it does is make it uncomfortable to sit on. Is that it? That's why it's not working?"

"What? No," she said with a quick shake of her head. "The dampness—the water—you did that."

"I don't make _dew_," he scoffed.

"Agronak, it's the middle of the afternoon, it's warm out, and the sun has been shining all day." Her hands flew around, gesturing up at the sky. "It's not dew. Tell me, how wet was it when you sat down?"

He stared at the ground, noting the circle of sparkling reflection where the light glistened off the moisture, and the dry, dull clover further around it. Everything centred around the spot he'd meditated on. And if he recalled right, he'd not noticed any dew when he'd sat down. Still not entirely convinced, he looked skeptically at Cerisse. "Maybe. But the other rocks didn't work."

"Really?" Surprise lay in her question, brow creasing as she thought. "How long did you meditate? What made you stop?"

"I tried the amethyst in your office. Mr. Gaersmith made me stop—he was muttering so loudly about the draft from an open window, I couldn't concentrate." A long sigh escaped him as he recalled the unpleasant wait, stuck in a tiny room with the grouchy Breton.

"Those windows don't open," she smiled. "That was you." Squinting against the sunlight, she studied him with excitement. "And the jade? What happened with that?"

"Nothing. I tried it when you left me to babysit Eduard on the way to the harpies. The spriggan interrupted me, but it didn't matter—I couldn't concentrate there, either. Ground was too hard."

"The ground where I left you?" she asked, staring off at the trees as she recalled the excursion. "But it rained all morning. I thought it was nothing but mud."

"Well, it was at first, but..." he trailed off, before standing a bit straighter, flush with pride. "That was me again, wasn't it?"

Cerisse nodded, brilliant smile on her lips. "Yes, yes, yes! Oh, I knew you could do it! But I didn't think you'd get it so quickly. This is very exciting." Her eyes flickered back and forth, darting between possibilities as she thought about what to do next. "Keep your stones," she suddenly said, "you might be able to use them for more later on."

His questions about what she would teach him went unanswered, Cerisse brushing them off as far too hasty, demanding time to choose the next lesson. She distracted him, segueing the conversation into a discussion of Belladyvyra's pleasure at their work in Westcastle, talk of the coven occupying them as they walked back to the manor.

* * *

The delicious scent of the snack mingled with the fresh air, plucked at by the envious breeze, jealous of its tantalizing aroma. Carefully brandishing the plate, keeping a wary eye out lest the hounds appear to challenge him for his savoury prize, Agronak walked through the grounds in search of Cerisse.

He hadn't seen much of her since their return, her family extending friendly invitations for him to participate in their leisure pursuits. Yesterday evening Evie somehow managed to get him to join her and Ria as they tried out her newest acquisition – a potter's wheel. It wasn't as bad as he'd expected. Although his bowl turned out more of an oval shape than a circle, he'd enjoyed himself in their pleasant company.

This morning found Gondyn looking to do a bit of sparring, an activity Agronak had gladly taken part in. The young man wasn't bad, for an amateur. Agronak tried not to hit too hard when his dulled practice blade struck true, but even so, he'd noticed the Breton rubbing his arms as they'd walked back to the house, though Gondyn continued to gamely make bad puns and light conversation.

Over lunch Ria begged him to join her in the kitchen as she attempted to make an authentic Yokudan meal. She'd blushed a bit, reminding him greatly of her sister in that moment, as she'd confided Everard _loved_ the food of Hammerfell, but she didn't quite have the upper body strength to manage it alone.

Her intriguing statement eventually led him into the warm kitchen, raising up puffs of flour as he pounded the stiff dough into thin sheets under the watchful eye of Danai. By the time he'd finished, a light sheen of perspiration coating his face, Ria finally managed to shape her ball of dough into...a slightly squished ball of dough. Taking pity on her plight, he'd offered as many helpful pointers as he could, drawing heavily from his unarmed combat training. Soon she was smacking the stubborn dough for all she was worth, her technique and follow through greatly improved.

He'd still needed to finish whacking it into the proper thinness, her strength giving out from exertion, at which point he reminded her this was the cuisine of the Redguards—little wonder it was more like fighting than cooking.

The results were worth it though, and he felt very proud with how well the project turned out. Taking a sampling of the various fillings—from mluo cheese to sweet aloe jelly to spiced lion—he went looking for Cerisse, hoping to impress her with his culinary prowess.

He found her far afield, leaning over the fence of an empty paddock, staring at the note in her hands. The sight of her slowed him for a moment. She looked so serious, so intense, the thought that maybe he shouldn't interrupt her briefly crossed his mind.

Then she was waving him over, the note crumpled, streaming out as ash from her clenched fist. Even as she smiled he could see something distressed her, her mind preoccupied with weighty matters.

"Inewen?" he offered, waving the plate under her nose, hoping the delicious scent would grab her full attention. "There's cheese, meat, and sweet," he pointed out.

"Ria made these?" Cerisse grabbed one of the mluo stuffed pieces, examining the layers of flaky pastry.

"I helped a little," he said lightly, leaning on the fence while popping a lion filled one in his mouth. The savoury little morsel tasted wonderful. He'd have to get the recipe for Mrs. Palenix.

"Ah," she murmured, enjoying the pastry. "Explains it. Even Cyovta's aren't so thin. But Ria's...well, she does try, but the first time she ended up having to wrap the cheese around the dough..." she politely let the sentence trail away with a little shrug. Flicking crumbs from her fingertips, she selected an aloe flavoured one.

"Here, grab a few," he offered, before remembering her palm was covered in ash. She wiped her hand on her dress, but he held the plate out of her reach, indicating he'd keep them available for her so she wouldn't get them dirty.

She ate while staring at an empty spot in the paddock, eyes slightly narrowed as she retreated into her thoughts. He watched her for a while, occasionally offering another piece of inewen, before curiosity overtook him. The note, the ashes, the strained manner—it felt rather familiar. "Something on your mind?"

"Oh," she startled, giving him a sheepish grin. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Was the note from _my friend_? Is everything alright?" He leaned in, whispering the question.

"Everything is fine," she assured him, crossing her arms over the top of the fence before resting her chin on them. "You'll get your letter very soon."

"Good." He wasn't satisfied with her answer though, interest piqued at what kept drawing her attention away. She had resumed her contemplative musing; even though she stood right beside him, her mind was somewhere else.

He rested his elbows on the fence rail, leaning closer to her. "Cerisse, where are you?"

She shook her head, lifting up her foot to rest on the bottom board. "I'm just thinking."

"About?"

"It's nothing," she brushed off the question a little too quickly. "Just a decision I have to make. Well, I don't need to make it," her words ran on, "I could do nothing and things would go on as they are. At least, for a little while."

"Then you'd have to choose?"

"No, then it would be too late," she sighed. Shifting her weight, she raised herself up onto the fence a little, before settling heavily back down to the ground.

"Why don't you tell me what it is, and maybe I could help you think about it," he offered. "After all, you helped me handle Choctam."

"No," she murmured, tilting her head to look up at him. "That's sweet, but it's...complicated. Secret."

"Something to do with the Blades?" he whispered.

"You could say that," she muttered, turning back to stare at the field. Her foot moved about impatiently, trying to find a comfortable perch, the vibrations as it heavily knocked into the fence running up his arms. "I guess so."

A loud buzzing distracted him. "Get off," he grumbled, waving away the large fly hovering near his plate, attracted by the fragrant pastries. "Damn pests."

She clucked gently at him, pulling out an arm to extend it towards the insect. It landed on the back of her hand, wings twitching. Resting her hand on the railing, she straightened up, looking over at Agronak. "It's not so bad."

"Ugly, filthy things," he grumped as he stared down at the fly crawling on her skin. "Arena gets plagues of them in the summer. Can't kill 'em fast enough."

"Thankless job, isn't it?" she asked the bug. "You do your part, and everyone hates you for it." She looked back to Agronak. "If it didn't, we'd be waist-deep in filth."

"Oh, so it'd be like living in Wayrest?" he stated plainly, lips twitching with amusement.

She laughed hard at his joke, her waving hands and indelicate snorts scaring the fly away. Regaining her composure she turned around, placing her back to the fence, then jumped up to sit on the railing. Noticing someone coming towards them, she waved her hand in greeting. "Dyn, what are you doing out here?"

"Little bird told me there was an inewen maiden plying her wares round these parts. Seen her?" the man answered. Agronak turned around, leaning back against the fence, and cocked his eyebrow at the grinning Breton. "Oh," Gondyn muttered when he noticed the plate of pastries. He looked askance at Agronak. "You don' t look like a desert flower of the A'likr. But those do look tasty..."

"Dyn, isn't there something you should be doing?" Cerisse asked, glaring down at her brother as he joined them.

"Nope," he answered, swiping a handful of inewen. "But I'm thinking of going on a quest. There's this poor chap who's been stuck with a couple of crazy sisters all afternoon. Maybe I should rescue him before he goes insane."

"No chores?" she insisted.

"Oh, that's right! I almost forgot," he exclaimed, mouth full of pastry. "Reesy, Mama wants you to help thin the garden. Better go do it before she comes looking for you."

"Yes, _you_ should," she replied, pushing Gondyn's greedy hand away from the plate. "Go to it."

"But it's plants," he moaned. Cocking his head to the side, he batted his eyes at his sister. "Reesy, really, do you think _I'm_ the one who should be doing it? I'll probably pull up all the wrong ones..."

"Then you can put them back in the ground," she cut him off sternly. "You're not getting out of this, Dyn. Two weeks of chores—we had an agreement."

"But think of those wee little baby plants. Can you really resist them?" He held his fingers close together, bringing them up to his face. "So young and innocent, they need your special brand of—"

"Hogspit," she interrupted, not at all swayed by his attempts at persuasion. "Now get to it, before I turn you into a _goat_."

"Witch," Gondyn grumbled at her. Turning to Agronak with a friendly smile, his voice turned smooth and charming. "Agronak, have you heard that gardening is like training with—"

"No," Agronak stated before the man could start trying to convince him that he should help, or perhaps do the entire job.

"I see how it is. She's bought your loyalty." Gondyn muttered darkly, stealing a couple more inewen for the road. He wagged his finger at Cerisse. "Well, when you hear the carrots crying, you've got only yourself to blame!"

"Could you really turn him into a goat?" Agronak asked thoughtfully, when the young man was out of earshot, his progress across the field slowed by his need to turn around and ominously wave his finger at Cerisse every few steps.

"I can't," she answered, "but the coven could transform him. Not into a goat though, those aren't..._appropriate_ enough." With a smirk, she looked over at Agronak. "Rats, on the other hand..."

"I don't want to know what sort of favour you'd need to do for the coven, to get them to agree to it," he mused, offering her the last of the pastries.

"Nothing as bad as you might think," she mumbled, leaving him a couple. Nibbling around some aloe jelly, her brows crinkled in thought. He could see her slipping away again.

"Can you tell me what's got you so occupied—vaguely?" He tried not to growl, a bit frustrated by the way she so easily forgot his companionship. "The general gist of it?"

"It's nothing," she demurred, a little flustered by his scrutiny. Brushing her hands off on the railing, she lowered herself back down to the ground. "It's just...I mean..." The words came haltingly as she waved her arms, as if trying to fan away an unpleasant aroma. "It's duty. Sort of."

"Something you have to do?" he inquired gently, trying to help her out.

"Well, I don't _have_ to," she answered, frowning at the empty plate. "Only, there's no one else who can. But it's...changed."

"Do you want to do it?"

"I don't mind it, really. At least, it used to be sort of pleasant. But now," she flushed, turning her head to look away, "well, that's just it. The dilemma. I could continue, but it isn't so much fun anymore."

"And the other option?" He had no idea what she was talking about, but he wanted to try and help. Bending down, he put the plate on the grass. "The opportunity you mentioned."

"Mmm," she grunted, staring down at her feet. Her muddy, calloused toes peeped out from the hem of her dull green dress. "I'd be doing that for me."

"You'd enjoy it?" he asked as he straightened up.

"Of course," she quickly answered, still staring diligently at the ground.

"You couldn't go back to the other thing if you did?" Leaning against the fence, he stared curiously at her, confused at her dilemma.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "It's one or the other."

"Which would make you happier longest? Is there some kind of time frame?" He wasn't sure what she had to decide between, but he had the fuzzy idea it was between some sort of mission and something personal, perhaps like a vacation.

"The..._dutiful_ one," she finally said, settling on a term, "would last for maybe a few more months. If I played my role right. And the pleasure—_personal_," she quickly corrected, repeating herself for emphasis, "personal one, I can't say. Maybe a day, maybe much longer. I don't know."

"And you've been doing the dutiful task for a while now?" Agronak asked, brows furrowing.

"Years," she replied, traces of bitterness in the word.

"Did you do any personal things during that time? Just for you?" he coaxed, trying to get more information from her.

"No, nothing like that," she mumbled to her feet.

"Well," he began, tilting her chin up with his fingers to make sure she paid attention to him, "seems to me you're out of balance. If you've been doing everything for them, shouldn't you take some time for yourself?" His own experience guided his words. As she'd spoken he realized he'd never taken a vacation before this one, and even this wasn't exactly a vacation in the proper sense. He'd spent so many years doing nothing but fighting and working. Only now had he begun to try the things he'd always wanted, like travel, and it had still taken Synderius' direct intervention to get him to do it. Blessings of the Nine on the mer—as strange as this trip had become, it was an experience he'd always treasure. "You need to make yourself happy every now and again," he instructed. "Keeps you interesting."

"But what if it doesn't last...long enough?" she protested, fumbling over the words as she tried not to say what she really meant. "To let so many down for something so brief..."

"It's a risk," he nodded, removing his hand from her face. "But that's what life is. Risks. You can't get the glory without taking a few."

She digested this silently while staring at his eyes, making him feel as though she was trying to see into him, to decipher his motives. He wasn't hiding anything, sincere in his advice. She deserved some happiness.

"Agronak," she finally spoke, "would you like to see the fae?"

"Of course," he quickly replied, confused by her sudden change in topic. "Did I help? Have you chosen?"

"Yes, but don't worry about it." Her hand pushed the air, as if shoving their previous conversation into the past. Her dark green eyes still watched him, and he noticed the hint of a smile on her lips. "You might want to take a nap. We'll leave at nightfall."

"Where? Why?"

"It's a surprise," she coyly answered. "I know you'll like it." She suddenly blushed, trying to hide it by bending down to grab the empty plate. "I'm going to go make sure Dyn isn't pulling up the persil. And," she risked a quick look at him, "thank you."

He watched her with amusement as she briskly walked towards the house, never looking back at him. Somehow he'd managed to set her off without doing a thing. He certainly didn't understand her, and he kind of liked it that way. The woman already was a delightful collection of surprises—he had no doubt she had a good one in store for him tonight.

Finding himself at loose ends again, he headed back to the kitchen, to check in on dinner. Maybe he'd help Ria stuff the tiger steaks. Hopefully she hadn't ordered a fresh one—he didn't think she could kill it on her own...


	24. Tips for Traversing the Marshlands

Brilliant moonlight cast its mantle over the forest, swathing the unusual trees in a delicate coating of silver. Gnarled and nobbed branches, curled like crippled arms, hung with beards of feathery moss in a strange mockery of willows. Tiny glowbugs flitted about in the air, little golden flares winking here and there as they exchanged coded messages with one another.

Cerisse's message was clear, albeit rather unusual. She looked up at him, wearing the same air of excitement she'd had the entire trip, as she repeated herself. "Trust me. Take off your shoes, or the ground will do it for you."

Agronak suspiciously regarded the terrain ahead, not at all enchanted with the idea of wading barefoot through a swamp. Misty vapours obscured the marsh, curling around the bog beacon and sponge stalks, hiding the source of the wet, bubbling noises he kept hearing. The chirrup of insects provided a counter melody to the bass tones of the croaking frogs. "I'll take my chances," he declared.

"As you wish." Shaking her head with amusement, she headed off into the low hanging fog.

He followed, wondering how much further they had to go. The moons sat much higher in the sky than when they'd set out from Hawkton Court. At first he thought they were traveling toward the coven, but she slowly shifted their course south, into a darker part of the woods. The air grew thicker, laden with moisture and the fecund scent of damp plant matter.

Mud quickly accumulated around the edges of his shoes, weighting down his feet, as if trying to force him to stop and take root. Refusing to obey, he pressed on, listening to the squelching of the ground as he sank into it with each step.

They were in the middle of the marsh now, surrounded by the wildest vegetation he'd ever seen. Moss completely covered the stunted trees, creeper vines curling around on top of that, reminding him of one odd pit dog he'd seen years ago who'd worn plate over chainmail on top of leather armour. It was an interesting strategy to use, though a poor one – the little mer had barely been able to move, cut down by his opponent in a matter of seconds. He still suspected that short match was one of the reasons they'd brought in standard raiments not long after.

His feet sank into the earth, seemingly no firm bottom hiding underneath the mud. Grunting with each step, he fought to free his legs from the greedy swamp. With a large sucking sound from the jealous ground, he managed to pull his right foot completely free—albeit bare, his shoe staying behind, buried in a slow, creeping torrent of oozing muck.

"Here," Cerisse offered, grabbing onto his hand to steady him as he balanced on one leg. She bent down, plunging her free hand into the mud, eventually extricating his sludge filled shoe from its hiding place. "Put your foot down and step up." Doing as she asked, he was shocked to find his bare foot settling solidly on top of the mud. Between them they managed to get his left leg out, and the shoe off. By the time they'd finished muck spotted them both.

"I'm sorry about that," he said sheepishly, indicating the mud gloves she now wore, dirt covering her hands, creeping almost up to her elbows. Shaking out his shoes, a rogue clump of mud flew up to land on his forehead.

"It's only dirt," she answered, chuckling as she plucked it off him. "Honestly, I don't know why everyone is always so worried about it. It washes right off." Grabbing his right hand, his left occupied with the task of holding onto his slimy shoes, she tugged him forward. "Come, let the fae make this easier for you."

"Is that why we can walk on this?" he asked, amazed at the ease with which they now journeyed through the marsh.

"With them, you can walk on anything," she replied, ducking under a curtain of hanging moss. "So long as you don't let anything get in the way of your skin. Like shoes. How else do you think witches can dance naked in the middle of winter?"

"They do?" A whisper of moss, having got caught up in his hair, tickled his cheek. Not wanting to let go of her hand, worried he'd sink back down if he did, he worked to rub it away with his forearm. "Do you ever join them?"

"Every chance I get," she responded. Entwining her fingers in his to get a better grip, mud slick hands threatening to slip apart, she pulled him forward as she picked up speed. "Hurry, we're almost there."

The quick pace soon turned into a run, Cerisse laughing as she raced along, weaving around trees while dodging clumps of reeds. Through it all he kept pace, never letting go of her hand, caught up in her delight. The air began to change, growing softer and lighter, sending a tingling prickle of anticipation over his skin. He could feel something enticingly magical waiting up ahead.

"Ready?" she whispered, eyes sparkling with excitement. At his nod she spoke low notes of magic to the cluster of tall grass in front of them, growing from a small island of firm earth in the midst of the bog. It rustled and swayed, parting so they could step inside.

"What do you think?" she asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

He couldn't answer at first, barely able to think, too shocked to respond.

Somehow they'd entered a large grove, many times larger than the patch of grass they'd stepped into. Magnificent trees edged a tranquil pond, water flowers blooming under the canopy of softly rustling leaves. As he looked, he noticed everything was in bloom – pale little flowers underfoot amongst the soft groundcover, large waxy petals set high in the trees, and all manner of wildflowers and blossoming bushes growing near the tall wall of grass bordering the grove.

"How?" he finally managed the words, voice breathy with amazement. "Did you do this?"

She laughed at the question, gently leaning into him as a small snort punctuated her mirth. "I'm flattered you ask. No, these were created long ago, before the memory of the coven begins. I don't know if the Ayleidoon hid in them, or if ancient witches lived here, but they're protected with powerful spells. Only those attuned to nature magic can enter."

"It's beautiful," he murmured, still in awe at the majesty of the place. Everywhere he looked his eye found something new to enjoy, another perfection of nature to admire.

"Wait until you see it properly," she hinted, leading him towards the still pond. "But let's get cleaned up a bit first."

The water felt warm and clear, making short work of the mud dried onto his arms and legs. With a familiar intimacy, Cerisse used her damp hand to wipe the dirt from his face. He leaned closer to her, considering stealing a kiss, but she'd already moved away.

"Come here," she beckoned from her spot in the midst of the glade. Her hands worked the clasp from her bun, loosing her hair to spill over her shoulders. There was a wildness in her attitude, as if she was a child of the forest, grown from the dirt rather than raised in a manor. "And take off your shirt."

He tugged it over his head as he walked to her, tossing it towards the edge of the grove as he gave her a _look_. She blushed, but held his eye. "Clothing interferes with the fae. It works best if you aren't wearing anything."

"Maybe we could try that later," he murmured.

"Close your eyes," she ordered, flushing furiously as she pointedly ignored his comment. "And don't open them until I tell you to."

He did as she asked, squeezing his lids shut. Tingling magic settled over him as she whispered spells, a very pleasant sensation. It gently faded away, absorbed into his own magicka. Then her hands latched on his arms, turning and pushing him into position as she muttered to herself about the best spot for him to stand. Finally she finished, satisfied with her arrangements. He could feel her behind him, raised up on tiptoes as she held onto his shoulders, trying to whisper into his ear. "You can look now."

"By the Gods!" he exclaimed, unable to believe his eyes. The idyllic grove, already beautiful, was now _alive_. Every blade of grass and fluttering leaf glowed, radiating out an aura of exquisite colour. Even though pale moonlight lit the plants, he could tell the blue bonnets from the golden wolfsbane, the flowers' delicate hues hovering around them as soft light.

As he took it all in, frozen on the spot, he began to notice the faintest glimmers of light drifting through the air. They skimmed over the surface of the water, curled around the branches of the trees, and wound through the stems of the flowers. "Are those..."

"Fae," she breathed, excitedly squeezing his shoulders. "I've never gotten anyone to see them before. And nobody's ever been able to come here with me."

"This is incredible." He turned his head to look at her, the motion becoming a startled whirl as he stepped back, holding his arms out, not sure where to stare first—at the colours rising from his skin, at the fae rolling over his arms, or at her own vibrant aura.

"I told you about your fae." Her hands, creating shimmering trails of gold and emerald when she moved them, waved over a small glimmer above his wrist. "They still have a bit to grow, but they're big enough to float now."

Experimentally, he moved his arm to the side, watching the deep blue of his aura as it shifted above his skin, and the way the fae quickly moved through the air to return to its lazy spirals around his wrist. Curious, he cupped it with his other hand, a faint sensation of magicka—his magicka—thrumming against his palm.

"Does it always look like this to you?" he asked, poking at the swirling colours surrounding her. When his hand collided with a fae settled on her shoulder, he felt the gentlest tingle of magic rush through his fingers as they swept through it.

"It's much more intense here," she explained. Smiling, she moved past him, waving for him to join her in the middle of the grove. He followed, looking at everything, amazed by this new world. "Now, I know it will sound odd, but there is one more thing you need to try."

"Anything," he quickly answered, eager to learn, see, and feel more.

"Good. You can close your eyes if it helps, and don't worry about bumping into anything if you do. The fae will guide you." With a contented sigh, she tilted her head back, letting her hair wave gently from side to side. "Now, relax, feel the magic surrounding you, and _dance_."

"Dance? How?" he asked, surprised at the instructions.

"However you feel," she murmured, lifting her arms above her head, then twirling away in a graceful spin.

He watched her move, lost to a melody only she could hear, whirling over the grass, skirts and hair flying out around her, pleasure radiating from her smile. After a while, he decided to give it a try. Holding his arms in position, he closed his eyes, then slowly began to waltz. In all those afternoons he'd spent studying with that odd little Bosmer, dancing around the empty salon in Crowhaven, he hadn't imagined he'd eventually be using his training to lead around a group of fae.

At first he felt only the grass under his feet, warm and soft. Slowly he became aware of pleasurable feelings here and there—a wrist, a calf, a shoulder—gentle sensations that brought to mind a soothing touch. Somewhere in the silky noise of the fluttering leaves, he thought he could hear the faintest strains of an elegant waltz, so he danced along to it.

The feelings grew in intensity, surrounding his entire body, an exquisite sort of ecstasy spurring him on. He let himself get lost in the sensation, unaware he laughed with delight, so wrapped up in the incredible pleasure. It was beyond his experience, as if he was merging into something wonderful, something powerful, moving ever further into the center of bliss.

Gentle hands pulled him back to himself, slipping into position as she fell into step with him. He opened his eyes to find Cerisse waltzing with him, a glory of green and gold in his arms, wearing that same bold, meaningful look she'd given him back at the inn. "Dance with me, Agronak."

"Cheek to cheek?" he murmured, bending down while pulling her close, with no intentions of letting her go.

"Seal it with a kiss," she whispered back, sending thrills through him as she slid her hands up his arms to wrap around his shoulders.

He did as she asked, lifting her off the ground so her feet dangled. Carrying her off to an inviting spot of grass, he heard her whispering as he followed the trail of freckles down her neck. There was no need for the encouragement—he was already more than willing to grant her anything she wished.

* * *

Damn the man! Damn him to the fieriest, most painful, most _irritating_ of the Nine Hells!

There was no reason to send Porkchop to wake him, as if he were a wee pit dog who could be frightened by a _pet_. The moist snuffling of the boar's snout tickled, and it wasn't that easy to wash off pig slobber. He'd have to tell Owyn that he'd better not—

"Gah!" Agronak shouted, finally waking up when he realized he lay face down on some fragrant wildflowers, certainly not in the gloomy bowels of the Bloodworks. He shoved himself off the ground, rolling away from the startled boar. It took off running, disappearing into the tall grasses ringing the grove.

Laughter floated down to him from a flowering tree, where that naked nymph of a woman sat high up on a branch, long hair and strategically crossed legs hiding things from view. She nibbled on a piece of fruit he didn't recognize, something that looked like an oversize, purple pear.

His desire to say something sarcastically witty warred with the fuzzy remnants of sleep wrapped around his mind, and the distracting reports coming from his back. Something that felt like heavy scales clung to his skin, large chunks falling off whenever he moved. Reaching around, he grabbed a piece, then examined it in his hand. It looked like dried mud, with bits of leaves and flower petals mixed into it.

"Everything in here is tame," Cerisse called to him, still smiling with amusement. "I once woke up snuggled into the back of a giant, white bear. Don't even know where those come from. Skyrim, maybe. I think there are ways to get in here from other provinces, kind of like a portal. I've seen tigers, scaly rats, guar..."

"What is this?" he interrupted, trying to rub the dry coating from his back.

"Clay, and some other things. Don't pick at it," she instructed. "It washes right off."

"What's it for? Some sort of witch ritual?" he asked, catching the purple fruit she'd tossed to him from her cozy perch in the tree. Its taste was unique, reminding him of grapes, berries, and honey. He ate it as he surveyed the grove, noting how very normal it looked again.

"Your skin. It should be all better now. It doesn't itch anymore, does it?"

He poked around a bare patch on his lower back—the skin felt smooth, no burning tingle resulting from his touch. He thanked her as he walked toward the pond. Holding up the fruit in between bites, he asked what it was.

"I don't know," she shrugged, patting the trunk against her back. "The witches have no name for it. It's unique. No matter what we try, we can't get cuttings to grow, and there are no seeds. But it's always blooming, and always laden with fruit."

Finished with the snack, he stepped into the pond. The water felt pleasantly cool, a perfect temperature embodying _wet_, with none of the negative aspects of _damp_. Algae coated rocks comprised the bottom, darting flashes of reflective colour occasionally visible as a small fish zipped in and out between the cracks. The depth increased quickly with each step, until he had to stand on tiptoe to keep his chin above water.

A loud splash announced the addition of a two-legged lamia in the pond, Cerisse having jumped down to join him. Unseen waves and drifts of hair lapped against his skin as she darted around him, alternately treading water, using one of his limbs to prop herself up, or rubbing the damp muck off his back.

"What happened to the colours?" he asked, turning his head to try and look at her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, the water supporting the rest of her light weight.

"Sunlight," she answered, letting a handful of water pour over his shoulder. "It's much easier to see in the dark. Now that you know what you're looking for, you'll get better at finding it. You can still see the fae though, can't you?"

He searched the surface of the pond, enjoying her gentle touch as he tried to find a ball of sparkles skimming along the water. There weren't any visible, but he did notice a patch of rippling air floating about, like the clear turbulence sometimes visible above intense heat. He pointed it out to her, asking if it was a fae.

"Well done," she smiled, sliding her arms around his shoulders. "You'll always see them now that your eyes have been opened." With a laugh, she kissed his neck. "You've already passed the initiation requirements to join the coven."

"Except I'm not a woman," he supplied in between gentle nibbles of her dotted forearm. Much to his delight, he'd found her freckled all over, even in spots he wouldn't have guessed.

"Damn good thing you aren't," she murmured, squeezing him tighter.

"I suppose we have to get ready to go back, don't we?" he asked with a heavy sigh.

"No," she answered, twisting herself around until she rested in front of him, waves of hair brushing against his chest. "I don't have any appointments in my calendar. Do you?"

"None."

"Then I'm all yours," she purred, stroking his cheek with wet fingers.

"Really? All mine?" At her nod, he pulled her closer, kissing her face. "So, this is _my_ cheek?" She replied with a throaty murmur of agreement. "And _my_ neck?" he asked, moving his attentions to the area in question. Her unspoken assent, nothing but contented breaths, brought a smile to his face. "Good," he said, hoisting her over his shoulder as he stepped up onto a rock.

"What are you doing?" she protested in a shrill squawk, small hands digging into his back as she tried to prop herself up. They slipped as he rose even further out of the water, scrambling to regain position.

He gently grazed her hip with a bite before answering. "I'm taking _my_ woman over to that soft patch of clover."

"Oh," she exclaimed happily. She fell silent for a moment, then spurred him on with a pinch. "In that case, walk faster."


	25. Analysis of Communication Methods

"Give me your wrist."

Agronak softly shook his head, resigning himself to another one of her miniature lessons, watching as Cerisse rubbed the finger-crushed leaf onto his skin. "And what does this one do? Make me fly? Turn me green?"

Clucking with disapproval, she pressed his wrist up towards his nose. "Now you're being silly. It smells nice." It did, a surprisingly warm, spicy scent. Giving him a smile with a hint of smugness, she scampered off towards a clump of gorse, the wind trying to brush out her thin braids and lift up her muddy skirts.

The change in her was remarkable in its subtlety. She would always be something wild in his eyes, a mysterious little nymph who danced for the moons and spoke to the plants, but now she was _his_ nymph, which made all the difference. Where she used to distance herself, skittish as a young foal, now all of her flitting brought her right back to him. During their return journey through the swamp and woods, she'd behaved like a tame hawk, hunting out little treasures of the forest—succulent berries, strangely coloured snails, scented leaves—to share with him.

Sometimes she'd grasp his hand, tugging him further into her realm, trying to teach him a little bit of nature magic, or share a happy discovery. And if ever he tugged back, pulling her toward him, she'd come to him with such enthusiasm she almost knocked the wind out of him with her embrace.

She muttered at the bushes, trying to coax out a few early berries to supplement their foraged meals. The strange purple fruit with no name had been both breakfast and lunch, surprisingly satisfying and perfectly suited to the languid hours they'd spent in the grove, enjoying each other's company in so many pleasant ways.

It was unusual how well he got along with her. In the past, he'd found women tended to fall into one of four categories—stranger, enemy, friend, or lover. Of the latter two, it was either one or the other, never a blend of both. Friends were the women he could share an ale and a story with, the ones he could talk to easily. Lovers were a different breed, their conversations full of coded messages about what he would need to do, buy, or say, to earn his reward.

Except Cerisse wasn't like that. Never had she demanded a piece of jewelry, a trophy from battle, or the recitation of a sonnet. The only thing she seemed to want from him, was _him_. It was incredibly different, and shockingly relaxing. Maybe romance didn't have to be filled with drama, fights, and tears.

Or maybe she just hadn't decided what to ask for yet.

She returned triumphant, generously bestowing smiles and berries on him. He leaned down a little, trying to make it easier for her to feed him the fruits of her labours. She had other plans, snatching a kiss in between juice filled bites.

A lumpy rock, vaguely carrot shaped, sat in stony obstinacy as it held two young saplings apart. He recognized it, having seen it a few times during their trips through the forest. "The house is just over there, isn't it?" he asked, pointing to the side.

She nudged his arm a bit, adjusting his aim, and nodded. "Yes. Now remember, we can't let anyone know, suspect, or even joke about us. It's too dangerous."

"So I couldn't do...this?" He grabbed her, lifting her up so her muddy feet dangled above the ground.

"No," she answered, taking advantage of her newfound altitude to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Or this?" Ever so gently, he nibbled on that sensitive spot of hers, hidden below the neck, right above the collarbone.

"Definitely...not." The reply gasped its way out in between distracted breaths.

His line of inquiry into other forbidden activities halted when he heard something running through the forest, snapping twigs and kicking up leaves. He placed Cerisse down so fast she spun, stumbling a bit before regaining her balance.

"What is it?" The tense question came as a whisper over his shoulder.

"Amaraldane," he chuckled, sheathing the sword he'd drawn in anticipation of an attack.

"At least they're living up to their name," she joked. The sleek Dar, followed by the sedate Morag, gave them a few excited yips of welcome. "Who are you heralding today, puppies?"

It turned out to be Gondyn, fighting off clutching twigs and sticky pollen. He was shouting for the dogs, muttering dark oaths in between at the overly friendly plants. Finding the hounds with Cerisse, he gave them a bemused grin. "Remembered where you buried her, did you?" He glanced over at Agronak, gaze traveling up from the muddy bare feet, over the soggy shoes tied to his belt, to the berry stained shirt. "And you managed to dig him up too? Dar, where did you find a place to make an Orc sized hole?"

"Dyn, what are you doing out here?" Cerisse asked as she waved for the hounds to follow her. "Did the cries of the carrots drive you away?"

"Funny," he replied dryly, "but no. I thought I'd do a little hunting."

"With no bow?" Agronak asked.

"Don't need one when you're trying to flush out a courier. We've been infested with them all day. Only direction they haven't attacked is from the rear, so I figured I'd try and head them off. Blast!" An ancient nettle, having waited through the damp fall, frigid winter, and gales of spring, finally launched into battle, sending a series of spikes into the man's thigh as he walked past. He bent over and yanked them out with a few softly muttered curses. Tossing the offending barbs away, he suddenly shouted over to Agronak. "Wait, stop! Don't step..."

Freezing in place, Agronak looked over the ground, trying to spot the danger. All he saw were dull rocks, muddy patches, and young plants. Glancing back at Gondyn, he found the Breton giving him a very odd look.

"...there. Hmm." His brow crinkled, like his sister's did whenever she thought too hard. "Lift your left foot up for me, would you?"

Doing as asked, Agronak stepped back, surprised to find he'd been standing on a nasty looking nettle. It hadn't hurt a bit.

Gondyn shook his head, letting out an amused sigh, before waving away Agronak's unspoken questions. He briskly jogged to catch up with his sister, where he held a low conversation with her. "Reesy, what did you do to him?"

"Dyn, I didn't do anything," she protested in a snippy tone, "that's his magic."

"Shamans can't do that," Gondyn replied, glancing back to watch Agronak picking his way along behind them, paying a bit more attention to what he stepped on. "You _witchified_ him, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," she huffed. "Besides, you can't just 'witchify' people. It doesn't work like that."

Gondyn's voice dropped to a whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of crunching twigs and panting dogs. "Reesy, you really should try to be less...well, _witchy_ around men. If you hope to ever get married—ow!" His advice was cut off when a branch, being held out of the way by Cerisse, suddenly slipped from her hand to smack him across the forehead.

"Sorry, Dyn," she said, not looking at all contrite. Without a pause she continued walking towards the edge of the forest, leading the hounds along.

"Completely crazy," Gondyn muttered darkly to Agronak as he rubbed away the sting with a small healing spell. "If she doesn't watch it, she's going to end up one of those mad old hags living alone in the middle of a _swamp_." He waved brightly at his sister, who'd already reached the field, and now waited impatiently for them to catch up. "Damnedest thing is, I think she might like that."

Agronak chuckled at Gondyn's dire predictions, amused by both how accurate and yet off target they were. Stepping out of the shaded woods, he felt a flood of sunshine instantly warm him, product of another beautiful spring day.

"Dyn, you mentioned couriers," Cerisse spoke while tossing a stick far afield for the hounds. "Who did they come for?"

Her brother arched his eyebrow and regarded her a little suspiciously. "You have to ask?" Seeing her plain look of confusion, he shrugged. "Apparently you do. I thought you'd orchestrated this so you'd be out when they arrived. Let's see, first one came for our resident barefoot lord."

"Me?" A wave of excitement ran through Agronak – this might finally be it.

Gondyn nodded. "All the way from Warfort. Poor fellow, Papa managed to trap him in his study for an hour and a half. I don't think we'll be seeing many more Khajiiti couriers around here for a while."

Cerisse laughed at that. "Spoke Ta'agra, did he? Well, at least Papa got some practice." Turning to Agronak, she explained away his eager anticipation. "It's probably from Choctam. His business is based in Warfort."

"You said the first one was for me," Agronak stated firmly, refusing to let go of his hope so soon. "And the second?"

Gondyn sighed heavily before answering. "For me. And Reesy. We got a visit from _the Hawkton family curse_."

"Oh, Goddess' mercy, he isn't still there, is he?" She froze in the middle of the field, looking as if she would bolt right back into the woods.

"_No_," Dyn grumbled, "but he was in the entranceway for over an hour. Even Mama ran out of small talk to make with him. I've never seen her speechless before."

"Who managed that?" Agronak asked. He couldn't imagine Evie silent – it was like trying to picture the sun in the middle of the night sky.

"Journeyman Bierles," Gondyn replied tartly. "Mordy's fault, of course. When that bastard brother of mine gets back..."

"He's an Evoker now," Cerisse interrupted. "And it's all _your_ fault, Dyn. I hope you haven't forgotten that."

"Me? Like I was supposed to let Mordy get away with that trick he pulled during the Warrior's Festival?" With wounded pride, the man pressed his hand to his chest in a profession of innocence. "I can't believe you'd say such a horrible thing against your own brother."

"Mordy's my brother too," she protested. Looking over to Agronak, she explained Gondyn's role in it all. "Dyn decided it'd be amusing to use Eduard's bad habit to try and annoy Mordistyr."

"I only sent him a note," Gondyn cut in, "just a friendly note from one brother to another."

"Care of the Mages Guild," Cerisse continued. "With some nonsense about a treasure map, and how Dyn's research led him to believe only someone who understood Nymph would be able to translate it."

"That fool speaks _Nymph_?" Agronak asked blankly.

"He _thinks_ he does," Gondyn answered with a mischievous wink.

"Eduard spent an entire summer trying to talk Mordistyr into letting him have a peek at the map, without actually asking about the map..." Cerisse elaborated, stepping with annoyance over the field.

"Since he's not supposed to read the notes," Agronak guessed.

"Right," she nodded. "Finally Mordistyr found out why Eduard was following him everywhere, so he sent a note back."

"That wasn't a note," Gondyn protested, brushing off a stubborn patch of pollen from his sleeve, "that was a dirty trick."

"It implied Dyn had the map." Cerisse sighed, giving her brother a dark look. "Because of Dyn's clever idea, Apprentice Bierles showed up at our doorstep, having chosen to hand deliver the message rather than send it."

"How was I supposed to know he'd do that?" A well-chewed stick prodded Gondyn's thigh, Dar's method of distraction. Wrenching it away from the energetic hound, he tossed it far into the field. "Though he's been so amusing since, especially with that little idea of his..."

"It's not funny!" she snapped. Whirling to Agronak, she pointed at her brother and expounded on his sins. "Because of this _jekosiit_, Eduard's trying to marry into the family in hopes of getting a look at that damned map! It doesn't even _exist_!"

Despite her insistence it wasn't humourous, Gondyn chuckled delightedly at her fury. "Do you remember when he thought Lyrrya liked poppies?" He elaborated to Agronak. "Every time she went to Chesterbrugh he'd give her a _plant_. Not a bouquet, but a potted plant. She's got a whole garden of them in Anticlere."

"Then when Carolyrrya got married, he went after Gwynyssa," Cerisse tartly continued. "She did _not_ find it amusing."

"Oh, Wynny was already in love," Gondyn dismissed Cerisse's accusations with an airy wave. "She didn't even notice him."

"And now it's you, isn't it?" Agronak asked her, earning a bitter nod in response. "At least Ria's safe..."

"Ri Ri's brilliant," Gondyn quickly exclaimed, bringing his hands together in a loud clap as he summoned the hounds back. "She's the one who finally saved us from him."

Cerisse glared at her brother, curiosity warring with annoyance. Finally, she grudgingly spoke to him. "What was it today?"

"He's terrified of getting sick," the young man explained to Agronak, "so Ri Ri always pretends to have something. She came lurching out of the library, dragging her foot, asking Mama if she might have gotten collywobbles." Gondyn laughed at the memory, lightly slapping Agronak on the arm in shared amusement. "You should've seen him—he bounced off the doorframe as he ran right out of the house!"

Agronak chuckled at the thought, until he noticed Cerisse's grumpy expression. "Is he also after your money?" he asked. The chatting had brought them to the gardens at the back of the house, and to his surprise he found the gravel paths comfortable to walk on, more so than when he wore shoes. In between steps, he noticed a small hint of rippling in the air above the ground before he put his foot down. His fae at work.

"No," she sighed, "that would be easier to handle. He thinks he'll be famous if he uses our nonexistent map to find the armour of the giants, or was it mudcrabs..." she mused with distaste.

"_Malaburokaran_," Gondyn corrected, his eyebrows wiggling a bit. He dropped his voice and leaned closer to Agronak. "It's Ayliedic. He's obviously never looked up the meaning."

"Dyn, you're terrible." With quick and strategic strikes, Cerisse took her brother by surprise, tickling his sides. "Completely incorrigible."

He whirled out of range with a yelp, keeping a wary distance from her. "Behave, Reesy, or I might send you a note next time you're in Chesterbrugh. Thanks to Mordy, he thinks I'm the one who's got the map again. Maybe it's time I had a sister take a look at it..."

"Do that, and I really _will_ have you turned into a rat," she warned, her voice deadly serious. Gondyn noticed the heavy undercurrents in it, his amused smile fading under her glare. "Already because of you I can't safely send a message when in Chesterbrugh. Do you know how much I have to spend on couriers?"

"Yes, you send the bill to my company every year," he answered with merry amusement.

"And you refuse to pay it every year," she grumbled. "I should ask Papa if he found out that Khajiit's rates. Maybe it's lower than the service I use."

"There was that third courier who came round," Gondyn added, still staying safely out of reach of her nimble fingers. "But I don't think he's available for hire. Gortwog's messengers tend to be very loyal..."

"Gortwog?" Agronak asked quickly.

Gondyn nodded, giving him a curious look. "You got a message from Orsinium. Has the green seal and everything. I think Papa would've liked to invite him in for a chat too, but even with his obsession he knows better than to interfere with King Gortwog's people. It's no surprise he's written to you, since you're..." he trailed off, ducking his head down behind a hedge. Still hunched over, he began walking backwards, towards a gap in the bushes. "I, uh, just remembered there was something I needed to do. I'll see you at dinner."

"Leave him," Cerisse said, shaking her head at her brother's antics. She quickly whispered at Agronak as they resumed the journey back to the house. "Say nothing now. We'll discuss it later."

Exhilaration pumped through his veins as he walked beside her, mind travelling through so many long-imagined scenarios. Finally, he had a chance to act. Granted, it wasn't very much of a role, but it was so important. He felt more than ready for it.

His daydreams barely got a chance to form before they were interrupted with the bright greeting of Evie, out enjoying the sunshine with her sketchbook. She abandoned her charcoal and walked over to them, words flowing as freely as the breeze. "There you two are! We were wondering if you'd be back for dinner. It's so good of you to be looking after Reesy for us, she's always wandering off."

"She doesn't need much—" he began to say, before Evie noticed the state of his clothes.

"Reesy!" Evie suddenly cut in, "Did you take him through the _swamps_? Honestly, child, why do you keep going there? It's so slimy and dirty and filled with all sorts of nasty things. I keep worrying you'll be bitten by a snake. Yes, I know you say there aren't any, but just because you can't see them doesn't mean they don't exist. And with you always refusing to wear your shoes, it drives me to distraction." She turned to Agronak, apologizing for her daughter's wild behaviour. "Really, Alabyval and I have tried so hard to raise her to behave properly. Oh, of course we're proud of her and her magic, but I just wish she'd be a bit more ladylike in her habits. She can be ever so charming when she wants to."

"I'm sure she can—"

But he couldn't get a full sentence out, Evie having discovered the shoes tied to his belt when he turned to point at Cerisse. She began scolding her daughter. "Did you make him take his shoes off? Reesy, you know better than that. He might be working for you, but you can't order him to behave like a savage. He's a lord, for Dibella's sake! This isn't like you."

"He took them off himself, Mama," Cerisse quickly protested, meekly letting her mother lead her back to the house with a firm grip on her arm.

"Not to say it's completely uncivilized," Evie hastily said, changing her clutching grasp on Cerisse's forearm to soothing pats as she offered Agronak a charming smile. "When I was a girl I used to love running barefoot through the clover. A time and place for everything, right?" She lowered her voice, conspiratorially talking to him as she continued to guide them through the back door, into the kitchen. "But don't be afraid to disagree with her, even if she's your employer. Though I'm sure I don't need to tell you how to be assertive. You must have learned so much about that sort of thing in the Arena. Why, the stories you must have to tell! Maybe you can share a few with us at dinner."

Evie patted his shoulder, pushing him firmly towards the hall. "But you'll want to freshen up first, won't you? I shouldn't delay you any longer." Her hands suddenly leaped off him, grabbing onto the shoulders of her daughter as she tried to sneak by. "Everything you need should be in your room, but if it isn't, simply ask Cata to take care of you."

"I need to wash up too," Cerisse said gently, trying to extricate herself from her mother's grasp. However, her arguments failed to sway Evie's intentions. As Agronak made his way to the stairwell, he could hear her coaxing her daughter back into the kitchen.

"Come along Reesy, darling, let's have a little girl talk," Evie soothed. "We haven't had a good one in ages. That mage fellow of yours came by today..."

"He's not _my_ mage, Mama!" Cerisse's horrified protest carried out clearly down the hallway.

Agronak paused, leaning over the railing, trying to hear a bit more of the conversation. When the sound of a door handle turning reached him, he pulled back, attempting to look like he hadn't been eavesdropping. Ria tentatively poked her head out from the library, warily glancing in the direction of the kitchen, before catching sight of him on the stairs. They shared a moment of amusement at Cerisse's plight before she quietly closed the door and he headed off to his room.

In the presence of ever blooming roses, he quickly washed and dressed, eager to get back downstairs to collect his messages. It was only as he laced up his tunic, fingers weaving over the dark mark on his chest, did he pause for a moment. It looked like a bruise, but it wasn't a bruise at all...

With a harsh exhalation he pulled himself from the happy remembrances of his wild little nymph to the moment at hand. If the letter was from Gortwog, then he'd have plenty of opportunity to be alone with her soon enough. In the meantime, he had to focus, and make sure to keep his distance from her. Maybe he should tell Evie just how generously Eduard had offered his services to Cerisse, to help confuse the scent. Of course, if he did that, maybe it wouldn't matter if he was alone with Cerisse or not—she'd be too busy trying to turn him into a rat to let him near her.

Tucking his tunic in, he could hear the faint sounds of knocking at the front door, muffled voices floating up from the hall. Probably one of the field hands reporting in, or perhaps a servant returning from an errand. He paid it no mind, too busy trying to remember what Cerisse had told him of the journey to Orsinium while he buckled his belt. Just a couple more days, and then he'd be standing in Gortwog's court, the very homeland of the Orcs...

The mournful scream, wrenching in its intensity, shocked him out of his thoughts. Grabbing his sword from its spot leaning against his dresser, Agronak ran out the door, hurtling down the stairs. The intense sobs and hasty tread of footsteps spurred him on. Close enough to the bottom of the steps, seeing nothing in the entranceway, he vaulted over the banister to land heavily on the floor, braced for battle.

But he quickly saw it was a situation where a sword was of no more help than a magician's spellbook. He dropped the point of it, careful to keep it away from anything in the crowded space, and stepped back, feeling infuriatingly useless.

Ria wailed inconsolably, despite the best efforts of her mother and her sister to soothe her. She clutched a letter in her hands, crumpled tightly as she waved it around, incoherent cries about 'it's over' and 'he's leaving' hinting at its contents. Cerisse gave Agronak a grim nod as she passed by, helping Evie guide Ria into the nearest room, towards a comfortable settee.

It was finally Evie who managed to get the note from Ria's clutches, gently tugging it away as her daughter sobbed into her shoulder. She stiffened when she read it, before beginning a continuous stream of soft words in a fruitless attempt to make Ria feel better.

Alabyval, summoned from the sanctuary of his study by the unusual noise, limped quickly into the room, demanding to know what had happened. Cerisse, face dark from her quick scan of the note, brought it over to him with a whisper. She didn't wait for its return, instead immediately heading back to sit beside Ria and stroke her hair while murmuring words of comfort.

As Ria turned to her sister, clutching her with the desperation of a drowning woman while loosing out a dramatic pronouncement that she wished she could die, Agronak watched her father's reaction to the stunning words. His face betrayed his emotions, the red flush of anger spotting his cheeks, the pinched expression as he looked at his heartbroken daughter showing his pain at her plight, and his frustration at being unable to fix it.

He let the parchment drop onto a stack of books, not stopping it when it slipped off to fall gracelessly to the floor. Catching Agronak's eye, Alabyval jerked his head towards the door, indicating they should leave the women to their work, the mending of hearts and drying of tears better performed by soft hearts and delicate hands.

The click of his cane against the wooden floors was more pronounced than usual, each rap an explosion of noise as he slammed it into the ground. Everything about him appeared stiff, from his limp to his posture to his lips, set in a bitter line of anger. It wasn't until they reached his study, on the other side of the manor, did he finally break his silence.

"I thought he was many things, but never a coward." The pronouncement was bitter, Alabyval's voice smoky with disappointment. He stepped to his desk, moving aside some books to find the notes buried underneath.

"What happened?" Agronak asked, too distracted by Ria's unhappiness to register more than faint recognition at the green sealing wax holding one of the envelopes closed.

"Everard," Alabyval growled the name as a curse. "Got a promotion off to Jehanna. Leaves Morndas. He didn't even have the courage to tell her himself."

"It doesn't mean it has to end," Agronak offered, trying somehow to help, to make the situation better. "She could go visit him. Or go with him."

"Then he should have _asked_," Alabyval replied tersely, stamping his cane in front of him impatiently. With a heavy sigh, he leaned both hands on top of it, staring hard at Agronak. "It's funny," he said, with the bitter air of a man who didn't find it funny at all, "I can tell you the origins of the words, and when they were first written down, but I've never understand what they're talking about. It's everywhere from Ta'agra to Ayleidic, all these poems talking about the many forms of love. All rot, I say. Either you're in love, or you're not. How is it that difficult?"

He shifted his weight onto his good leg, grimacing a bit as he muttered out an Orcish verb. "You understand the verb, 'to be,' in Orcish, don't you? It's not passive like Common, but powerful, almost elemental. You don't need an adjective when you use it. In Orcish, a mountain _is_. An ocean _is_. The best poem I've ever read about love was written by Atulg gro-Burbug. Two perfect words. _Love_ _is_." Squeezing his eyes shut, he suddenly turned his face away, dismissing Agronak with a raspy voice. "You'll have to excuse me."

As Agronak shut the door to the study, he stared down at the emblem of Orsinium pressed into the brilliant green wax—orcish green, the same colour as his sword. His long awaited summons was finally here, and he found himself torn with conflicting desires. Part of him wanted to hurry, to continue on with his mission; part of him wanted to get as far away as he could from the pain trapped in the walls of this happy family home; part of him wanted to stay, to somehow make things better even if only by being here, perhaps his presence making the inhabitants he'd come to regard as friends a bit happier; and part of him, a very tiny part of him, wondered if he wouldn't have been better off leaving long ago, before Chesterbrugh, before he'd known anything, when he'd been offered the chance to go. Because somewhere, deep down, buried beneath the chaos of his conflicting thoughts and the Hawkton's absorbed emotions, he was starting to worry.

It had nothing to do with Orsinium, and the heavy matters awaiting him there.


	26. Essential Meal Planning Suggestions

"Well, I never liked him," Gondyn pronounced, spearing a small piece of whitefish from the platter. "He was too..._blonde_."

"I'm just so sorry about how it turned out," Cerisse murmured, in between small nibbles of her toast. She hadn't eaten much, her breakfast looking as though a tiny mouse had picked it over, before leaving in search of something better.

"You shouldn't be," Agronak grumbled, giving a dark look at the fifth pancake Danai had stacked on his plate. While he knew they had a long ride ahead of them, he didn't think it would be a good idea to stuff himself silly before getting on his horse. The poor thing would probably collapse under the weight.

"How can you say that?" Cerisse asked, shocked at his statement. She squinted angrily at him, beams of sunlight from the shutters hitting her eyes, narrowing them to slits. "That's horrible!"

"I'm sorry Ria had to go through this," he hastily explained, poking at his ham. Ham, whitefish, _and_ sausage? Danai had really gone all out this morning. Maybe she was trying to distract them with food. Too bad the girl who needed a good distraction the most hadn't left her room since yesterday afternoon. "But I'm glad she's rid of him. He's clearly an idiot."

"Well said," Gondyn mumbled, his mouth full of fish. "But which part of his idiocy are you talking about?"

Agronak shook his head, putting his fork down to rest. He leaned back, trying to let his stomach stretch out. One more bite and he felt he might explode, which probably would serve as an effective distraction for the household. Cleaning bits of Orcperial from the walls _would_ keep them busy. "She loved him. Anyone could see it. How could he let a girl like her go? Where does he think he could find anyone else like her? Or for that matter, someone else who'd love his stupid ass as much?"

Somewhere between the uncomfortable bloated feeling, the anger he harboured at the priest's cowardly actions, and his own unhappy memories, he had to work to keep the bitterness from his voice. As he'd listened to Ria's heartbroken wails through the walls last night, he'd realized he'd never had a woman care so much she'd cry like that for him. It had been a galling revelation, an irritating thought that sunk prickling claws into his heart. He'd never had much time to worry about things like love before, but on rare occasions he'd see it in others and suddenly wonder if he'd ever find it for himself.

"Like her?" Cerisse asked in a quiet voice, repeating his words back to him.

"Someone who'd listen to his ridiculous sermons about shiny hair or hat size without laughing at him," Agronak elaborated. "I mean, she sang hymns for him, tried to learn how to cook for him, and he gave that up? She's young, she's talented, she's beautiful..."

"She's _rich_," Gondyn quipped with dark sarcasm. "Don't forget that. Always my sisters' most attractive quality."

"She is?" Agronak asked, surprised to hear it.

"Reesy, where did you _find_ him?" Gondyn called to his sister with a laugh. "Stuck in an oubliette?"

Cerisse simply shook her head with a sigh, ignoring his questions. "Ria's got her own company, like all of us. It's doing very well."

"Better than any of ours when we were her age," Gondyn added, pointing with his toast. Tiny crumbs and bits of jelly dripped onto the table as he stabbed it at Agronak. "Little sneak watched us make the mistakes. She's doing brilliantly."

"Then he's a fool, and an idiot," Agronak answered with a decisive nod. "Too bad he isn't around for us to teach him a little _wisdom_ before he leaves. I know all about the best way to _instruct_," he grumbled, knuckles cracking as he clenched his hands into fists. In the Arena he'd been on the receiving end of those lessons, true, but he well remembered how they'd gone.

"That won't help," Cerisse scolded, letting her barely eaten triangle of toast drop onto her plate. She rubbed her fingertips together, causing a rain of crumbs to fall daintily over her eggs. "Don't let Ria hear you say such things. It won't make her feel any better."

"Why not?" The faint question, given from the doorway, surprised them all. Ria wandered into the room, her tread slightly stiff, like a sleepwalker's. She stared at her sister with puffy eyes, red and swollen from hours of crying.

"Ria, dear, here— have a seat," Cerisse quickly coaxed as she jumped out of her chair, guiding Ria over to her spot with firm arms wrapped around her shoulders. "Would you like some toast? Eggs? Juice?"

"I want to hear what Agronak has to say," Ria answered, setting her pale face to him. Her hair was loose and mussed, a crown of tangles highlighted by the sun.

"Of course." Ignoring the protests of his stomach, he leant forward, finding the untouched water glass hiding in the collection beside his plate—Danai for some reason having given him an assortment of beverages to go along with his buffet of a breakfast—to place in front of Ria. "After you drink that." She looked horrible, reminding him of the faces of ill pit dogs the morning after a big celebration. He was sure she was dehydrated, at the very least.

"Darling, you don't have to..." Cerisse began to whisper, trailing off when Ria began to drain the cup. Instead she lightly stroked her sister's hair, discreetly working out some of the easier knots.

"Done," Ria pronounced as she slammed it back onto the table, the vibration jingling the cutlery. She gave him an intense, glassy stare. "Now tell me what you would do to him. And why. I want to know."

"Well," he began, trying to think of something mild to start with, "he lied to you. He led you on. So I'd take his tongue, and a dagger..."

"And cut it out," Gondyn murmured with approval.

"No," Agronak corrected, looking over to the young man, "split it down the middle. Fork it so it fits the lying snake he is."He'd heard of such things being done before; at least, being partly done by one particular Argonian lady. Synderius had told him about all of the tricks she could perform due to her partially split tongue, but this didn't seem like the time or place to mention it.

"What else?" Ria's voice sounded oddly hollow. "Is that all?"

"He's an idiot to let you go," Agronak continued, looking back to her. "Head's emptier than a ghost's. I'd use a maul to beat his fluffy hair in until it filled up the spot his brain should be."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Cerisse asked with an intake of breath. Her face was pinched, clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter being discussed. "Maybe I should go get Mama..."

"No," Ria snapped in a bold voice, shrugging off her sister's hands. "I'm sick of all the soft excuses about Everard. I know you're both trying to make me feel better." Her voice went higher, a near perfect mimic of her mother, "Oh, Ri Ri, maybe he was just too scared to see you. Maybe he thinks it's better this way. Maybe he'll write back. I'm sure he didn't mean..." Her words choked on a small sob, before she cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her composure. "I want to hear Agronak's opinion. I want to hear how a _warrior_ handles it."

He glanced from Cerisse to Ria, hesitant to continue. Cerisse gave him dark looks of warning, but it was something about Ria's manner, perhaps in the stiff way she held her head up, or the first bit of sparkle he'd seen in her eyes since that letter had dimmed them with tears, which made him go on. "He's a coward, not worthy of being called a man. He couldn't even face you, he had to run off like a cur. I'd show him what a yellow bellied sack of guar spit he really was."

"How?" Ria asked, voice barely a whisper. "Tell me how."

Agronak thought about it, recalling one incredibly creepy monk who'd fought in the Arena years ago. He didn't know what had happened to the man—he simply stopped showing up for matches one day—but he'd never forget his highly unusual maneuver. "I'd split him open, grab his cowardly guts, and wrap them around his neck. Choke him with his own entrails."

"Can someone really do that?" Gondyn asked in awe, dropping his toast.

"That's enough," Cerisse snapped, looking a bit ill. "Ria, come, let's get you back to bed."

Ria refused to go anywhere, pushing Cerisse's well-meaning hands away. "You think I should want to hurt him," she stated to Agronak, staring intently at him.

"Yes," Agronak answered, holding her overly bright eyes. "He's the bastard who hurt you. You did nothing to deserve this."

"You think he's an idiot, a fool, a coward."

"He _is_," he replied firmly. There was no 'think' to it - Everard was wrong to end it like he had. If he'd shown any decency, Agronak might feel less angry with the man, but he'd behaved without honour. A lady deserved better than that.

"You think..." her voice cracked a bit, and she bit her lower lip as it began to tremble, "you think I should hate him."

"No," he quickly answered, shaking his head. "Hate is an ugly thing. I wouldn't want you to hate anyone."

"Ria!" Cerisse's attempt to stop her sister as she bolted out of her chair failed, fingers unable to grab hold of her as she slipped around the table. With surprising force Ria threw herself into Agronak's side, clutching him in a powerful hug. His shoulder quickly grew damp as she buried her face in it.

"Aggy, thank you," she sniffed, before correcting herself. "Agronak, sorry."

"Aggy's fine," he soothed, patting her back, rather bewildered at what to do next. Hysterical females weren't a common creature in the Arena. Bloodthirsty ones, on the other hand... "Do you feel better?"

"No," she answered with a moist laugh, a strange cross between a chuckle and a sob, "it still hurts so much. But now I want _him_ to die, rather than me."

"Ah," he rumbled, giving her a quick squeeze, making her snort into his shoulder as he knocked the wind from her. "Now _that's_ how a warrior handles things."

* * *

The sun dipped low in the west, flaring a brilliant orange light onto the land, its final protest before extinguishing itself for the night. It set the mountains to the north on fire, dark brown rock reflecting a burnished red, a colour that unfortunately reminded him of old blood.

Theodyrick stared at it, as he always did, unable to keep from looking at the land—his land—far to the north. Uptower, Tuning—all gone, given away by a traitor Queen to a talking _pig_.

His grandfather had gotten nothing but a pittance of remuneration. Oh, they said Elysana'd been very generous, but a large sum of gold didn't make up for the wealth in that rock; rich mines lurking beneath, the influence of owning land, the _power_. It should have been his, passed down to him from his grandfather, sole inheritor of the Wickton fortunes. Instead he'd gotten nothing but an old house in the middle of nowhere, his grandfather having spent the money enjoying his latter years, the revenues and trusts he would have received from the mines lost to an Orc, of all creatures. An _Orc_. He still couldn't believe any of them knew how to _talk_, let alone run a mine.

Surely it was turncoats and traitors, those scum who'd lost the right to call themselves Bretons, who were responsible for the profitable fortunes being made from _his_ mines. Mines brimming with silver, iron, and that remarkable green metal, found only in the Wrothgarians, _orcish_. Named after the creatures who'd lived among it, lurking under the rocks of the mountains, their hides the same colour as the crude weapons they'd fashioned from the strong, dense metal.

And now...now they lived above it, growing fat from the hard work generations of his family had put into planning and digging. They reaped the rewards, while he was given nothing but bitter condolences.

That cunning thief Gortwog, that false leader, had stolen too much as it was. Orsinium had been no big loss, a leaky old fortress that none but the daft creatures had wanted. Except somehow, in the past couple of decades, that minor win had translated into a vast territory which rivaled the entirety of the kingdom of Wayrest. How, Theodyrick had no idea. Probably demon magics, foul spells woven by their dark eyed shamans.

He had no love for them, the pariahs of High Rock, but even he had to admit whatever Gortwog and Elysana were up to, it wasn't what Edwyn suspected. The one thing Gortwog was, above all others, was _crafty_. He'd never be so bold, so reckless, so utterly foolish, as to extend an official invitation to a secret courier.

Edwyn, his dear cousin on his mother's side, had been so sympathetic when Elysana had brokered that secret treaty ceding Theodyrick's family's fortunes to the Orcs. In a brilliant display, alternating between fury, outrage, and sympathy, he'd promised he'd restore Theodyrick's land, somehow, some day. But first, there was a small matter he needed someone to look into...

All these years later, Edwyn still sent for his cousin, asking for discreet inquiries into one matter or another. If Theodyrick ever dared broach the subject of a reward, the Royal Consort would look at him with those lazy, lidded eyes, before make frightening remarks about patience, loyalty, and treason. He'd long stopped asking about the mines.

So the fiery sight of the mountains, his mountains, his burden, burnt him twice over. Because of dearest Edwyn's jumping at shadows he was rattling over the dusty roads of this backwater province, stuck here as he waited for his other cousin, his dear cousin on his father's side, to finish up his business.

It hadn't shocked Theodyrick to find Edwistyr expecting him at the inn in Vanshire, insolently smug with his information, ready to discuss Gortwog's newest invite to what passed for his court, with several mentions of how he'd told Theodyrick their grey quarry wasn't the one they sought. He had, however, been very surprised to find the young man insistent on staying in Menevia for a few more days. Edwistyr's points about remaining out of reach of Edwyn for a little while, under pretense of following his orders, were rather salient. Except it was his little comments, too lightly said, about having some small business matters to attend to, that had truly intrigued Theodyrick.

Edwistyr, the rogue, the man who'd scandalized half of Elysana's court by bedding the other half, planned to take a _wife_. He couldn't begin to imagine what sort of ridiculous woman would marry the knave. Perhaps she was foreign—only a woman from another province would be unaware of Edwistyr's unique reputation. It certainly wasn't as if he'd heard reports of his cousin having a favourite for a long time, especially not a single, eligible, _rich_ favourite. Partly out of curiosity, largely out of amusement, he'd agreed to spend a few more days at his country estate, the only thing he'd inherited from his grandfather, before heading back to Wayrest.

In the meantime, while he waited for Edwistyr to finish securing his fortune, and Edwyn to reach his own conclusions about Gortwog's latest action, he did have a dear neighbour he could call on to pass the time. Ah, his charming Karethys, she'd been ever so attentive since her little outburst...

* * *

It was so very cold.

Waking with a shiver, Agronak opened his eyes, looking for the source of his misery. He found it easily, wrapped up in the source of his pleasure.

Cerisse, his remarkable little nymph, had stolen the blankets, leaving him to freeze in the chill night air. She lay curled up on her side, near the edge of the bed, swaths of fabric wrapped around and tucked under her, creating a warm cocoon for one.

Except there were two in the bed, and he had no intentions of turning into a frosted Orcperial. Already his flesh had broken out in chilled bumps, little tremors running through his body as it ineffectually tried to warm itself back up.

Tugging out the edge of a blanket, he discovered it wasn't long enough to cover much more than his near side, the rest of its width pinned down by the light weight of his companion. She was so small compared to him, he could measure her not by standard height and width, but easily with his hands. Not much more than one hand's length across at the shoulders, barely one and a half up the length of her back. She wasn't anywhere near the tiniest woman he'd ever seen, but she certainly was the most dainty of all his previous lovers.

And the most creative. After an incredibly long day in the saddle, they'd both barely managed to walk up to their rooms in the semi-luxurious inn, legs numb and locked into position. He'd never had much occasion for long rides, and most of the journeys she'd taken him on had been short, no more than a couple of hours at most. However today they'd left soon after breakfast, and apart from the occasional stop, they'd ridden well into the night.

He'd not been enthused about her knock at the door, feeling so stiff and tired he hadn't been in the mood for company, especially not when he'd found her with grizzled grey hair and a leering grin in the hallway. He would never mention it to her, but the form of Morgolda was frighteningly unattractive to him. The memory of Ysabel's hair in the morning, before she'd had a chance to beat it into submission, prevented him from ever looking twice at a woman with wild grey locks.

But her transformation back into her regular self, her gift of a very large tin of witch salts, and her coy question about how many people he thought could fit into the oversize tub in the corner of the room, had dismissed all such dreadful musings from his mind. After a bit of delightful experimentation, and some rousing debate, they'd decided it could hold four friends of the coven, or two and a half Bretons, or one and three quarters Orcperials.

Propping himself up to better see, he surveyed her sleeping form, trying to judge where and how she'd managed to tuck in the blankets. In the dark of night, he noticed the faintest glow coming from her skin, a thin layer of green and gold hovering above her face. He reached out, sliding one hand under her hip, while bringing his other arm across, over her chest. There it was, that hint of blue dancing above his cold skin. It was almost invisible, but he could see it. His fae, one doing lazy loops around his bicep, were much easier to spot.

Hands in position, he shifted a bit to get as much leverage as he could, before yanking his bedmate in a swift, smooth tug across the mattress to rest beside him. She mumbled a bit, her sleep snarled mind unable to articulate anything more than muffled murmurs, before falling silent. He draped the blanket, now more than adequate for his needs, across his body before tucking her hair over her shoulder to get it out of the way.

It reminded him somewhat of Orcish hair, albeit much less thick, but it had that same stubbornness, a refusal to be anything but stick straight, he knew very well. She'd happily let him work with it as they'd relaxed on the bed, same as she'd done during that sunlight filled morning back in the grove. Little braids and twists, simply done if you knew the trick, fell here and there across her pillow. He'd always found it soothing, letting his fingers fall into the well-known routine as they played with a lover's hair.

Not many women were so content to let him be. Ilona, with her remarkably silky hair, was the worst. Anytime he'd so much as looked at it, she'd started up with comments about how much more he'd like it if she only had that jeweled hairpin, or that gold clip. During one nasty argument he'd growled out she would have to shave it all off before he ever bought her so much as a damned ribbon.

He sighed deeply, letting the old memories float away, as he brought himself back to the moment. After a bit of adjustment he felt comfortable, little linen cushion pressing against his cheek, one arm curled around his less than delicate companion. She'd laughed loudly when he'd used the word _delicate_ to describe her as he'd marveled over the slight size of her arms, snorts of mirth escaping her as she'd assured him of her sturdiness. As she'd pointed out, he didn't need to worry about crushing her—she could easily steal his strength away if she ever needed to.

Regardless of her protests, he made sure to position the weight of his arm so she wouldn't wake up sore in the morning. She could claim she was tough until the stars ate away the night sky, but he'd never be convinced she wasn't still fragile, in one way or another. Without letting her know, he was always very careful around her.

After all, hurting her was the last thing he'd ever want to do.


	27. Navigating Majestic Mountain Passes

Agronak slipped into wakefulness, using his hands to brush away the hair matted across his cheek. Except the hand he tried to use didn't work, and he dimly realized he seemed to have two too many.

One lay tucked under the pillow, one curled below his chin, one hung above his left ear, and one pressed into his neck. Flexing his fingers, he identified the first two hands as his own. A grin spread across his face as he looked over to find Cerisse curled up against him, having abandoned the possession of the blankets in favour of possession of _him_ sometime during the night.

With her squished against him on one side, and the plastered walls of his room on the other, he didn't see any choice except to press up slowly, peeling his chest off the warm linens beneath, careful he didn't knock her over in the process. She let out a muffled moan as her hands slid off him.

"Good morning," he said as he twisted around, sitting so he could see her.

"No," she murmured the small protest while seizing his forearm, trying to tug him back down. "No morning. Too early."

"Come on," he encouraged her pouting form, half hidden under the blankets, "the sun is shining, the horses are restless, and I bet there's breakfast waiting downstairs."

"Blast breakfast," she grumped, pulling the sheet up over her head. "And blast mornings."

He patted her head through the thin linen, certain she scowled at his impertinence. "Hide under the covers if you like, but we can't wait all day. If you won't get up, I'll have to get you up."

"Try it and I'll blast you," came the low growl from the malevolent lump under the sheets.

Chuckling softly to himself he let her be for the moment, easing out of bed to begin preparations for the day. It didn't take long to dress and pack, his body happily limber considering the stiff muscles he'd had yesterday, after hours on horseback. Just thinking about undergoing the same arduous ride made him grimace as he worked the buckles of his pack closed. Though she'd mentioned they should get to the next inn before sunset today—that is, if they didn't leave too late from their current lodgings.

"Are you ready to come out?" he asked, leaning over the bed to kiss what he guessed was her hidden forehead. But the ridges and bumps let his lips know he'd managed to find her ear.

"No." The answer was accompanied by a protective tug of the blankets closer to her.

"Fine. Then we'll do this with the sheets." He gathered up the excess fabric, before scooping her curled form into his arms.

"I'll get up!" she yelped, arms and legs flailing about in a tangle of bedsheets. One arm managed to break free, pulling the linens off her face. She tried to look mean and threatening, but failed miserably, what with the strands of hair clinging to her skin, and the rest of her swaddled up like a babe. "Put me down this instant!"

"As you command," he replied with a wink, before letting her drop harmlessly down to the mattress.

Thoroughly indignant, Cerisse shoved the blankets away. She scrambled off the bed, standing beside him to glare as her hands fruitlessly worked to smooth her static-charged hair.

"You're up," he stated mildly, "good morning."

She huffed at him, turning on her heel to walking briskly to the door.

"Shouldn't you change before you go out?" he questioned. She never moved through the halls looking like herself when she visited him in inns—it would be too dangerous if someone noticed.

"Hmph." With a derisive noise, she turned the knob, cracking the door open. She whispered a cantrip under her breath, then disappeared from view. _Invisible_. Good to know she could do that.

The door to his room opened and closed seemingly by itself, leaving him alone with his amusement. He'd have to remember how effectively that worked to get her moving in the mornings. She certainly wasn't a natural early riser.

Breakfast was brief and solitary, Cerisse choosing to sit at a far table with her back to him, making short work of her meal. Fortunately by the time they got back on the road, morning sun highlighting the tips of the mountains, her bad humour had dissolved away with the last of the lingering dew.

They'd taken the roads to the north, curving around the hills by staying on the coastal plateau. Yesterday's landscape was repetitively familiar—slightly rolling fields, blossoming orchards, and the occasional small town or large city. Through it all the Wrothgarian Mountains loomed on the horizon, looking so close he could reach out and touch them, yet so far away it appeared as if he never would.

By the time their long early morning shadows had shortened into stumpy midday blots, they'd reached the initial approach into the mountains. The horses picked their way over rock littered trails, small pebbles and the occasional large boulder strewn in their path.

As they moved higher into the mountains the landscape undertook a variety of changes, each new valley or crest revealing another surprise. Once the path led through a wide pine forest, the ground so acidic from years of fallen needles nothing grew underneath the dark canopy of branches, allowing him to see past rough barked trunks to the distant rocks hemming in the aggressive trees.

Another time, they followed an orange river, the water carrying its corroded treasure of rusted iron stolen from the mountains on its greedy path to an underground lake. It stank of rotten eggs, the high peaks of the rocks around them preventing a breeze from dispelling the unpleasant aroma. He was glad when the road finally branched away, curling up towards fresh air and blue skies.

"The weather keeps changing," he noted to Cerisse as he flung back his cloak, trying to drape the fabric into a minimum amount of coverage across his back. They rode along a winding part of the path, carved out of the mountainside, with no railing to prevent a skittish horse or clumsy traveller from plunging over the edge to the valley floor far, far below. The view was breathtaking—deep brown peaks of the Wrothgarians clustered ahead, like a multitude of dragon's teeth arranged in an overlapping pattern of scales, one behind the other.

"It's the mountains," she answered, guiding her horse closer to the mountain side. Tiny waterfalls poured out from cracks in the rock, splashing down to create a series of miniature rapids in the ditch edging the path. Her fingers trailed through the icy clear water, casting drops of rainbows to spin in the sunlight. "The winds get lost in here. They say if you listened long enough, you'd hear every voice of the Empire, because the valleys capture weather from all directions. The heat from the A'likr, the ice of Skyrim, the sunshine of Summerset, and even the dust of Vvardenfell." Wiping her damp fingers over the back of her neck to cool herself off, she looked over at Agronak, giving him a smile. "They don't, really, but it does seem to be different with each mountain, doesn't it?"

He agreed with a nod, gently nudging his horse along the path, trying to keep his distance from the edge. The road curled around the side of the mountain, exposing him to brilliant sunshine that baked him under his armour, and the sight of small white clouds, shaped into near perfect circles, middles dimpled like thumbprints in dough. It was a blessing when they finally found a gentle breeze, the trail slowly descending to a rocky lake.

"We'll let the horses rest here for a bit. There's some food in the pack." Cerisse's welcome words made him sigh in relief. They'd essentially ridden since breakfast. His lower half felt numb, his stomach rumbled, and he wanted to keep his mount in good spirits. It wouldn't do to have the stallion get stubborn near the edge of a cliff.

Agronak joined her on the beach, the shore comprised of small pebbles, polished smooth with years of water and wind, the mix of pale grey and dark brown rocks looking like so many abandoned eggs. They spoke sparingly, too busy enjoying the cold lunch and the tranquil surroundings. The sunlight didn't sparkle off the unusual water, but made the milky turquoise lake glow with stolen luminescence. He'd never seen water that colour before, but had heard the stories of the pale, slightly green-tinted pools hidden away by mountains. Somehow it seemed too exotic to be in the middle of so much solid stone; he'd expect to see something like it surrounding the Crystal Tower of the Summerset Isles, or fringing the coastline of Tear, in Black Marsh.

Hearing the clacking noise of disturbed rocks, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked for the source of the sound. A timber wolf on the far bank padded towards the shoreline. It spotted them and the horses, freezing in its tracks. Lifting its muzzle to the breeze, it sniffed several times, eyes squinting against the sun's glare. After a small pause, the wolf resumed its course, walking to the shore to lap up some water.

Agronak watched it as he ate, tracing the wind as it ruffled furrows through the wolf's fur, noticing how its eyes rarely strayed from the group on the other side of the lake. Finished with its refreshment, it trotted away, disappearing behind a collection of tumbled boulders, remnants of an ancient landslide.

The sudden clasp of arms around his shoulders, and affectionate kiss against his neck, surprised him. Cerisse grinned widely with pleasure. "You didn't try to kill it."

"Why would I?" he asked, puzzled by her statement. "It only wanted a drink."

"How did you know that?" Her delighted question brushed past his ear as she squeezed him again.

"Well, it..." The answer fell away as he pondered how exactly he'd known the wolf meant no harm. He'd say it was something in its stance, its eyes, its demeanor, but he'd never spent much time around calm wolves before that he could so readily identify their moods. All of his experiences in Cyrodiil were either fighting enraged wolves in the Arena, or in chance encounters with a hungry lone wolf hunting his villagers' sheep.

"You _felt_ it, didn't you?" Her voice drifted over his shoulder as she nuzzled against it. "Intuition, insight—whatever you want to call it, you had a glimpse of it. You're starting to understand the creatures of nature."

"Like a Bosmer? Does that mean I'll be able to order them about next?" It could be useful to have a pack of wolves he could command at will. Maybe he could train them to hunt down Synderius if he tried sneaking onto the grounds of Crowhaven again...

"No," she laughed, giving him another kiss before she stood. "Only means you'll be less likely to try killing everything on sight."

Protesting her sweeping generalization of his behaviour, while reminding her there _were_ dangerous creatures out there, he helped her pack up their things after the too brief rest. They were soon underway again, following the snaking trail as it skirted the crest of the mountain peaks, taking them closer to the dark clouds looming to the north.

The trail led them into a narrow valley, steep slopes of towering rock edging the wide road. Drawing his cloak closer around him, Agronak attempted to ward off the frigid winds blasting past, stealing the heat from their fingers and fluttering through the horse's manes. As they continued through the freezing gales, he snatched one of the fae rolling over his arm to whisper a request for heat, exactly as Cerisse had shown him. A faint glow of orange, nowhere near as intense as her spells, flared in his palm. He tucked it under his cloak, grateful for the small measure of warmth it provided.

He was chilled to the core when they finally made it out of the valley, the heat of the sunshine blocked by the leaden clouds overhead, the howling wind still generously sharing its icy bounty. A shiver ran through him as the first fat snowflakes stung his cheeks. Calling over to Cerisse through clenched teeth, he asked her how much further they'd have to endure the weather before it changed again. Every mountain seemed to have its own climate, from near tropical heat to gentle breezes to freezing, biting chill.

"I'm not sure," she answered, voice as tense as her cold muscles. "I don't like the look of these clouds. It might be spring on the coast, but it can be anything here in the mountains." As if to underscore her words, a burst of snow swirled around them, flakes speeding past their faces, hurried along by icy winds.

Gritting his teeth, he bent his head down, resigning himself to the unpleasant journey. If there wasn't a deadly fall so near at hand, they could spur on the horses, but the prospect of plunging off the edge of the path was even less appealing than having his hands freeze into blocks of ice around the reins. They rode through the steadily increasing snowfall, the road below the horses' hooves occasionally obscured by waves of blowing snow.

Unfortunately their progress slowed further as the visibility decreased, thick squalls of snow sometimes so dense it hid the opposite mountain peak from sight. The freezing wet layer of semi-melted snow on his face burnt his skin, while the plummeting temperature tried to steal his breath.

"We've got to get out of this," Cerisse shouted to him from her position huddled over the back of her horse. "I think there's a cave up ahead. We can wait it out there."

"Lead on," he answered back, impatient to be out of the worsening storm. The freezing cold was bad enough, but the slowly growing layer of snow on the ground worried him the most. If the path became coated in white, how would they be able to follow it safely? They'd passed numerous misleading ledges and dips that ended in nothing but a long fall—he didn't want to take one by accident.

"Over here!" Waving a snow speckled arm, Cerisse summoned him towards a crack in the mountain. The narrow opening revealed nothing but darkness to his eyes, but a quick murmur for light on her part soon illuminated the beginning area of the cave. It appeared empty, large enough to shelter them, deep enough to escape the worst of the snow and wind.

The horses didn't need much coaxing to get them into the chilly cave, where they were tethered to an outcropping of rock. Cerisse huddled against him as she created a fae to provide both light and heat, the intense warmth of her creation instantly working to relax each frozen muscle it drifted over. "Hopefully we won't be here too long," she stammered, pausing whenever her teeth chattered, "the inn is about an hour's ride from—"

She fell instantly silent when he pressed a finger to her lips, hushing her. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully to the sounds around them, hearing the shifting horses, the raging wind shrieking past the cave entrance, the small vibrations of buckles and jewelry whenever Cerisse shivered against him. Along with something faint, something that sounded almost like..._singing_.

"We're not alone," he whispered, stepping away from her. "There are others, deeper in."

"Oh, good," she replied, clutching her cloak tightly around her. "Other travellers. Let's find out how long they've been waiting."

"Are you sure they're travellers?" he quickly whispered, stepping beside her as she headed towards a hole in the back wall, opening into what appeared to be a tunnel of sorts.

"Of course," she answered, ducking under the low ceiling of rock She looked up at him from her crouched position. "I've met others in here before. Years ago, mind, when I was still a child. That's why I remembered the cave. Not the first time I've been caught in a mountain blizzard."

He reached out to grab her shoulder, preventing her from disappearing into the tunnel. "At least let me go first." With a nod, she agreed to his request, allowing him to lead the way. More than a few times his back accidentally scraped against the rough surface of the low ceiling, even though he hunched over as much as he could. Sometimes he wondered if he wouldn't be better off crawling rather than trying to crouch.

At last the tunnel opened up into a large section of cave, and he could stand again. Between the horseback ride and awkward passage the muscles in his legs and back began to protest angrily, sending him blatant requests for a long rest.

"See? A fire," Cerisse whispered, indicating the dancing orange light reflecting around a curve in the rock. He could hear the crackle of burning wood, but the singing had stopped. "Come, let's join them."

He gave her a nod, stepping ahead of her, making sure his cloak wouldn't get in the way if he had to go for his sword. She might be comfortable with this, but he couldn't help feeling a bit jumpy considering the importance of their journey. Who knew what damage the parchment could do if it fell into the wrong hands?

"Hello?" he called out, listening hard to the noises ahead. There weren't any soft whispers, which eased his worries a bit. Perhaps they were nothing but simple travellers making their way through the mountains on foot, trapped by the freezing storm.

"Hello there!" a male voice called back, familiar Breton accent in his tense words. "Who is it?"

Agronak relaxed, answering with a smile. "Lord Lovidicus and Lady Hawkton." The man sounded even more worried than he was, as if he expected Agronak and Cerisse to run out and slit their throats. The impression was reinforced when Agronak finally caught a glimpse of them, the man slightly older, clutching a simple iron shortsword awkwardly, and the silent Breton woman beside him, wary eyes peering out from her pale face. "We were caught in a snowstorm and seek shelter. May we join you?"

"Welcome, friend!" the man sheathed his sword as he waved them over with a friendly grin. "I'm Thetrik, and this is Vyelle. Come, warm your bodies at our fire, and our hearts with your company!"

"Thank you," Cerisse accepted, giving Agronak a wink as she slipped past him, heading to the crates set around the small fire. As she fell into easy chatter with them, he walked slowly over to join her, glancing around the large cavern.

The light from the fire didn't reach to the edges, but he noticed stacks of crates and a handful of bedrolls in one dark corner. Some were thick with dust, probably left ages ago by past travellers. Hopefully they wouldn't need to use them, and the storm would abate before long.

Thetrik talked to Cerisse, words splashing out with the ease of a loosened tongue. Perhaps the Breton kept himself warm with a few nips of some heartening liquor. It would help to explain the rapid, flowing movements of his arms as he gestured around erratically. "A Lady Hawkton, eh? Of Menevia, or Orsinium?" When Cerisse answered Menevia, he glanced briefly over at his silent companion, a flash of a smile passing between them. He launched into a monologue of interrogation, asking Cerisse about people and places near her home, not pausing to let her answer before he broke into vague remembrances of when he'd last seen them, one pointless story following breathlessly on the heels of another.

Not trusting the sturdiness of the old crates, Agronak chose to stand, bemused by the loquacious Breton. So far neither he nor Cerisse had been able to ask the man how long they'd been waiting, or where their journey took them. Occasionally he caught Vyelle studying him, sullenly sizing him up, glancing away to the corner whenever he looked at her. They were a well matched pair, her silence perfectly complimenting Thetrik's non-stop chatter.

Between the crackling fire and the barrage of words, the cavern walls echoed with sound, almost masking the distant noise of the wind and the jingling of the horses as they shuffled in the cave entrance. Agronak frowned, looking away to the side, concentrating on listening. That wasn't the jangle of bridles, or the clack of horseshoes stamping against rock. It was the very familiar sound of armour clinking against itself, accompanied by the creak of a bow being notched.

"What—" Cerisse didn't have time to finish the question before the cavern exploded in a whirl of activity. Just as Agronak was about to warn their fellow travellers they weren't alone, a rush of movement from behind distracted him. He turned to find Thetrik lunging at him, sword pointed at his chest. He dodged to the side, grabbing hold of the man's wrist with one hand, jerking it closer so he could wrap his arm around the Breton's neck. As he twisted sharply, he heard the soft crack of fragile bones snapping, accompanied by an angry female cry behind him.

Before he could push away the lifeless form in his arms, a sharp tug at his belt infuriated him, his sword flying out of reach through the air to Vyelle's waiting hands, stolen in a burst of magic. As he lunged towards her he took the opportunity to shove Cerisse off her crate, trying to get her down, away from the fray and danger. She yelped loudly as she hit the ground.

Vyelle backed away as quickly as she could, sword held limply in her left hand, not the sort of weapon she favoured. Her right hand twirled, weaving a vicious miasma of green magicka around her fingers. Trying to dodge him she jumped back, loosing her spell at the same time.

She hadn't realized it wouldn't hold him back any more than a wall of feathers could, her paralysis spell glancing harmlessly off his skin as he slammed into her, knocking her against the cave wall. Her head smacked hard into a jutting piece of stone, her wide eyes forever telling of her surprise at her failed plan, held open by the whimsy of death.

"Stop, please, I give up!" Wrenching his sword away from Vyelle's slumping form, he whirled around to see a Bosmer, clad in a chainmail shirt, standing behind the high wall of crates stacked in the far corner. She tossed her bow and arrows onto the bedrolls when she saw Agronak looking at her, her words pouring out in a pleading babble. "I didn't want to help them, but they made me! I've been their prisoner for months now. Please don't hurt me!"

He took one lunging step towards her when the distressing moans of pain coming from the fire altered his course. Running over to Cerisse, keeping his eyes and sword trained at the nervous mer, he wasn't prepared for the rage that attempted to overwhelm him when he caught sight of Cerisse's injured form.

Cerisse lay where she'd fallen, arrow firmly embedded into her shoulder, blood flowing generously from the wound to stain her green cloak, painting a dark blossom of pain on the fabric. Her pale cheeks were wet with tears, her lips and hand trembling whenever she tentatively touched anywhere near the source of her agony.

"I can help. I know some healing spells, get her fixed up double quick," the Bosmer coaxed, slinking around the walls of the cave closer to them. "Let me help, I didn't mean to hurt her..."

"Stay back!" he growled, furiously flinging a nearby crate at her to ward her off. She barely managed to jump away in time, the dry wood of the container splintering to pieces as it smashed against the rock wall.

"No," Cerisse hissed, hand of her uninjured arm lightly pressing on his chest, "I want you to bring her here. She can help."

"What?" He glanced down at her briefly, before staring warily at the frozen Bosmer on the other side of the cavern. "How can you trust she won't—"

"I don't," she gasped, gulping for breath as she struggled with the pain. "Tie her arms behind her back. Hurry."

"Hear that, mer?" he shouted, reluctantly standing, leaving Cerisse on the uncomfortable ground. "Chainmail off, hands behind your back, _double quick,_" he parroted her words to her. "Or I'll do it for you."

"There's rope beside you," the Wood Elf called back while turning around. She cooperated, moving with the quick speed of the mer of Valenwood, flinging the chainmail shirt away and lacing her fingers together, the ragged sleeves of her tunic crumpling as her wrists rubbed against each other. She was ready before he could reach her, meekly allowing him to bind her, not struggling as he hauled her over to kneel beside Cerisse.

"I think it hit a vein. You'll have to pull it out," Cerisse whispered to him, occasionally glancing to the mer beside her. "First, tear off her sleeve." When he hesitated at the odd request she hissed at him in impatience. "Just do it!"

Grabbing hold of the dirty fabric, Agronak yanked at the seam, the thin threads holding the garment together snapping with the force. Roughly pushing down the remnants of the sleeve, he exposed the mer's arm.

"Get the arrow out," Cerisse ordered, clutching hard to the Bosmer's bicep with her good hand, fingers digging into the mer's flesh. The Wood Elf winced, but remained silent.

"It's going to hurt," he warned, not wanting to do it, but not seeing any other options. He certainly couldn't cast any healing spells on her with an arrow embedded in her shoulder. It had to come out first.

"It hurt going in, and it still hurts," she muttered, "I think I'll survive when you take it out, but I won't if you don't hurry."

Setting his sword on the floor, near to hand, he took a deep breath before reaching towards the wound. Cerisse let out a squeal when he put one hand near her shoulder, to hold her down, then yelped when he gingerly wrapped his other hand around the shaft of the arrow.

"Ready?" he asked when she seemed to have herself back under control. She squeezed hard, fingertips almost disappearing into the mer's arm.

"No," she cringed, nodding for him to proceed anyway.

He began to tug, trying not to injure her further in his attempts to heal her. A fresh torrent of sticky blood lapped at his fingers as she shrieked, a horrible noise that echoed off the cave walls, magnifying itself to a maddening pitch to ring in his ears, spurring him to hurry, to end her misery a little moment sooner.

As soon as he felt the arrowhead slip free, he began to weave restoration spells into her shoulder, so eager to make her feel better he rushed the magic, the spells splashing against her in sloppy showers of healing sparkles, far less effective than they should have been. With her cloak flung back, arrow still caught in the fabric, he could see the full extent of the wound through the hole in her gown. It was healing despite his lackluster spells, flesh knitting back together, flow of blood slowing to a trickle. He glanced up when he felt a strange pull in his chest, as if a small hand had hooked his ribs and jerked him forward. The sensation grew, softly tugging the breath from his lungs, and he startled when he saw why that was.

Cerisse, staring intently at the Bosmer, was whispering a dark edged spell he didn't know, the only words he could catch having to do with health. But the plucking magic, stealing energy from the mer's skin to flow past Cerisse's clutching arm, didn't look like a healing spell. Especially not with the mer's eyes rolling up, eyelids fluttering wildly as she gasped for breath. Entranced, he watched as the stream of golden energy from mer to victim increased, Cerisse's spell intensifying as she regained her strength.

With a heavy sigh Cerisse finally released the mer's arm, dark bruises marking where her grasping fingers had dug into flesh. The Bosmer slumped to the side with closed eyes, leaning awkwardly where she fell against a crate. Cerisse ignored her, staring down instead at her healed shoulder, frowning when she caught sight of the bloody arrow stuck in her cloak. She tugged it free, staring at the arrowhead with narrowed eyes.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly, grabbing hold of the hand resting at her side. She gave him a wan smile as she tossed the arrow to the side, towards the fire. He heard it sizzle when it landed on a burning log.

"I think I'll live," she whispered, pushing herself off the ground. Grabbing her, he helped pull her up, hugging her close. She threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly, but remained silent. She didn't cry, just clung desperately to him as he lightly rubbed her back.

She seemed to be handling everything relatively well for an inexperienced civilian. It was obvious pain wasn't a frequent companion in her life—he'd been pierced with more arrows than he could possibly remember during his time in the Arena. After a while, it wasn't that it didn't hurt when it happened, but on the scale of pain he'd experienced on those pale sands, it ranked among the lesser injuries. Most of the time you could just reach over, yank it out, toss a quick healing spell on it, and carry on. If you couldn't, that tended to be the last match you ever had to fight.

They stayed like that until the mer behind Cerisse let out a soft moan. It seemed to startle her back to the present, out of whatever thoughts had stolen her attention away. Shifting back, her hands leaving him to arrange her ruined clothing around her, she looked about the cave. "We should probably secure the others before they wake up. It'll slow us down, but it shouldn't take longer than a couple of hours to take them to the nearest town."

"Others?" he asked, glancing around, wondering who she was talking about. Had he somehow missed another bandit hiding in the shadows?

"Thetrik and Vyelle," she clarified, brow furrowed in mild confusion. "We'll heal them up enough so they can walk. I'd rather not put them on the horses."

"You can't heal them," he replied plainly, "they're dead."

"Dead?" She flinched as if she'd been bit, scrambling to kneel. Peering around the cave, she caught sight of the the silently still figures lying on the ground. Her voice fell quiet, shocked into a whisper. "You killed them?"

"Just like I'll do to you!" In a blur of motion the Bosmer, having loosened her bonds with a hidden dagger, lunged from the spot where she'd been feigning unconsciousness. Aiming the dagger towards Cerisse's heart, protected by nothing but the fabric of her gown, it looked as though her pronouncement would come true.

Except she hadn't counted on Agronak's keen reflexes, his hand shooting out to grab the Wood Elf's wrist, twisting the blade to point back at the mer as she rushed forward. Understanding what he'd done, her other hand trying to latch onto his arm to halt her momentum, she wasn't able to prevent the sharp blade from slicing into her neck, sending a spray of hot blood over her intended victims.

If he couldn't move so fast he didn't doubt she would have succeeded, turning on him after she'd finished with Cerisse, cutting him down before he could reach his sword. While he'd never know the truth of the matter, he felt firmly convinced not only was she a willing participant in the bandit's plans, but she'd probably been the ringleader.

He let the mer slump awkwardly to the floor. It wasn't until he heard the first strangled squeak that he turned back to see Cerisse, her mouth frozen open in shock, damp blood splashed across her face. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, worried perhaps the mer had done something, thrown something, or cast something he'd not noticed.

"Dead!" she exclaimed in a garbled, shrill voice, barely blinking. "And I can _taste_ it!"

"Cerisse?" he reached for her, but she suddenly turned away, hands and knees pressed against the rocky floor, chest heaving. Recognizing the symptoms, he sat next to her, stroking her back, softly encouraging her to get it out, to try and relax. It frequently happened to new pit dogs, their minds unprepared to handle the gruesome realities of the Arena floor.

As the spasms wracking her frame subsided, he tried to tell her she'd be fine. She shook her head in tense little motions, rejecting his words. "I can still smell it," she gasped, before bolting towards the tunnel. She had the advantage, springing off her hands and knees, whereas he had to get his legs out from under him before he could run to follow. As he bumped against the low ceiling of the tunnel, cursing the rocks hampering his progress, he worried she'd run out into the blizzard.

She hadn't done anything so drastic. Instead he found her kneeling at the cave entrance, snowflakes and wind howling around her, grabbing clumps of snow with trembling hands, roughly rubbing it over her face as she tried to wash away the mer's blood. Her cheeks were already red with cold when he knelt beside her, trying to grab hold of her arms to lead her back into the warmth.

She resisted, shoving him away wordlessly, her strength unable to budge him. Between her attempts to grab fistfuls of snow, her fingers angry pink against the white drifts, and her desperate efforts to push him away, small arms futilely slamming into his side, he started to worry, noticing she was working herself up into a frenzy. Finally he grabbed her, pinning her arms together as he pulled her close, refusing to let her go even as she beat her fists into his chest over and over again.

He held her tight as she wore herself out, certain she'd raised some dark bruises under his leather armour by the time her hands stilled and the first shuddering sob escaped her lips. As she began to cry, finally letting her emotions out, he picked her up, carrying her warily towards the far wall of the cave, tense in case she suddenly started struggling again. But she was too tired to attempt escape, fingers curled into the straps of armour across his chest, face hidden away.

Wedged against the rock wall, cold stone pressing into his back, his cloak tugged around to wrap her in an extra layer of warmth, he could think of nothing else to say or do as he cradled her in his arms, knowing this was a struggle only exhaustion, or acceptance, would win.

* * *

Cerisse was awake when he returned, sitting beside the fire, small frame lost in the folds of his cloak. Stress pinched her features, but she gave a shy smile at his approach.

"I've done what I could to make it better," Agronak stated, holding up her damp cloak with a shiver. It hadn't been easy, trying to wash out the worst of the blood with scoops of snow, but at least he'd gotten enough out it no longer left streaks of red when it brushed against his hand.

"I know," she replied softly, gesturing around the cavern. "Thank you."

After she'd fallen asleep—or passed out, he wasn't exactly sure which—he'd left her with all the warming fae he could manage, before going off to make the inner part of the cave more hospitable. He'd knocked the bedrolls about, dust shaken loose, and arranged them beside the dwindling fire. Breaking apart some of the crates to use for kindling, he'd made the disturbing discovery of a small cache of gold, an assortment of jewelry, and a few other valuable trinkets of vastly disparate origins. Those, along with the tiny vials of skooma, painted a grim picture of the dark business the cave had seen in recent months.

He'd also done what he could to make the traces of violence disappear, so she wouldn't face too many unhappy reminders when she finally woke. The bodies lay hidden in the far corner, safely out of sight under a stack of crates, the formerly clean clothes of Thetrik and Vyelle now irreparably stained from use as makeshift rags to clean away the blood and sickness near the fire.

"How are you feeling? Want something to eat, drink?" As he sat beside her, setting her damp cloak over a nearby rock to dry in the fire's heat, he studied her face. She might not be happy, but she was much calmer.

"Some water for now, thanks." She accepted the flask while holding the cloak open, motioning for him to share it with her. As he drew closer she snuggled into his side, her body heat helping to warm him back up. It hadn't been pleasant working at the cave mouth, between the blasts of snow and the biting winds.

"I'm sorry." Her words came out in a soft rush, a spoken sigh. "I'm not much of a warrior."

"You don't have to be," he answered, snaking his arm around her. "And you don't have to say anything. No apologies, no explanations."

"I'm fine," she tried to assure him, her words in sharp contrast to her pursed lips and the haunted look in her eyes. "It's just...I mean, I've never seen..._death_ before."

"Never?" he asked, confused at her statement. He knew she'd already lost her grandparents, at the very least.

"Well, I don't mean like that," she replied, shaking her head. "I've seen bodies, and I was there when Nana passed..." A ragged sigh escaped her as she clung tighter to him. "I've never seen a person _killed_ before."

"You did fine," he tried to reassure her. He'd seen far worse reactions from pit dogs and spectators alike back in the Arena. Though he'd never bothered trying to soothe them like he'd done for her.

"No, that's not the point," she huffed out in frustration. "I'm explaining all wrong." Pulling away from him, she stared at her skirt, hands tugging and smoothing out the folds of fabric as she spoke. "Witches don't kill. Not unless they _must_. There is no magic, no deed, which can balance the taking of a life."

"Good thing I'm not a witch," he murmured, gently rubbing her back.

She frowned, sliding her palms along her thighs, pulling her skirt flat. "I'm not doing a very good job of protecting you, am I?"

"_You_, protecting _me_?" he asked with amusement, dropping his grin when he saw she was serious. "Synderius told me I was supposed to protect _you_."

"Oh!" The information took her by surprise. Goggling up at him, she gave him a weak smile. "Then I guess I'm good at giving you chances to do that."

"Hey, don't forget you tried to help me out at the Queen's dinner, and I'm the one who messed it up," he protested, trying to make her feel a little better. "And have you already forgotten you saved my life by carrying me to the coven? Or did you do that because you already knew how much I wanted to chew on you, even if I wasn't a wereboar?" He gently bit her hair with a growl, earning a shaky chuckle in response.

She leaned into his shoulder, dissolving into him with a sigh. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to rest here until morning. I don't feel much like travelling today."

"Whatever you'd like," he answered, bemused by his sworn protector—the delicate little nymph snuggled against his side.


	28. The Etiquette of Orsinium

Dark hills of stone obscured his view, the path maddening in its wandering course, winding through the clefts of the mountainside rather than going over top. At last they came around the final curve, allowing Agronak to behold the full splendour of Orsinium.

It was much more..._practical_ than he'd expected. Dominating the centre of town, it was impossible to miss the tall, imposing fortress, built ages ago by Orcs as a bastion against the attackers who'd frequently raided the wealth of the Wrothgarians. It didn't quite have the majesty of a castle, or the grandeur of a palace. If anything it reminded him of a high, gloomy _prison_, walls made of thick stone blocks, as dark as the surrounding mountains, only the narrowest of slits built in to allow sightlines for defenders and nooks for archers. Even the entrance was built as if the occupants expected an invasion, the door several stories off the ground, accessible only by a narrow, twisting stairway. The platforms built above and around the stairs, offering opportunities to stare down, or perhaps drop things, onto the heads of approaching visitors did nothing to improve the inhospitable air of the structure.

Still, Agronak was impressed with the city, especially since nothing but the fortress stood here when Gortwog won the land in a legal duel. Agronak had trouble believing the crowded streets, the finely crafted buildings—imported stone, wood, and plaster more common materials than the dark rocks of the Wrothgarians—dazzling in their ostentatious displays of elegance, hadn't been in existence for ages.

Though it was the prevalence of green skin that pleased him most, Orcs making up the vast majority of the citizens going about their business. Ladies and beggars, idlers and shopkeepers—everywhere he looked, he saw Orcs of every station, every class, and every level of wealth. He couldn't help feeling a sense of pride at their accomplishments, knowing what he now did of the obstacles and prejudices held and sometimes enforced by their neighbours.

After stabling their horses on the outskirts of the city, they walked through the streets, Agronak looking around trying to see it all, Cerisse whispering soft instructions about proper behaviour to him the entire time. She sounded so weary as she explained how he was to be the assertive, dominant one—even though she was his alleged employer, apparently he was to be the one issuing orders. At least, so long as they were in the city.

She fell silent whenever they passed anyone else. He dismissed her paranoid habits, figuring she still felt jumpy from yesterday's attack, and overtired from a lack of sleep. Surely after a good night's rest she'd be in much better spirits.

So it took a little while before he noticed she'd fallen out of step a ways back, lost near the entrance of the narrow laneway. With a bright flush on her face, she tried to catch up to him, pointedly ignoring the trio of Orcs jeering at her as they stepped in front of her at every turn.

"Looks like the little Breton's gotten lost," the squat one called to his companions in Orcish. "Think we should show her the way to go?"

"Yeah, it's about three days that way," laughed a bald Orc as he leaned into her, making her step back to avoid bouncing off his thick chest. "But you're supposed to drop 'em in another province, or they'll find their way back."

"You want that, girly?" the tallest of the lot sneered down at her, before chuckling to his friends. "She don't even speak the language, the --." A word Agronak didn't know, but could guess its meaning by the way it dripped off the Orc's tongue with dark venom, punctuated his pronouncement.

"Leave her alone," Agronak shouted to them in Orcish, watching as they stepped back to observe him. Why Cerisse faintly shook her head while staring intently at him didn't concern him—the iron mace in the tall one's hands did. He could tell by the way the Orc idly swung the weapon he knew how to use it.

"It speaks," the tall one sneered, "fine trick for a filthy half-breed. Want to see if he knows any others?"

"Urzog, isn't that—" the question got cut off as the mace danced through the air, coming to rest lightly against the bald Orc's armour.

"Don't matter," Urzog growled, appraising Agronak with a leer. "Best in the Empire don't mean the same in Orsinium. 'Cause here, we've got _real_ Orcs."

"Let her pass, and I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Agronak took a step forward, calculating the reach of Urzog's weapon. If he could stay out of range, it'd be easy to counter any sudden attacks...

"Think I'm low enough to hang around a _Hawkton_?" Urzog spat on the ground as he said the name. "Spend my time with a filthy _squatter_?" He gave Agronak a malicious grin as he adjusted his stance, the late afternoon sun glinting off his rough iron armour. "I've got more _pride_ than that."

"Pride isn't the same thing as _stupidity_," Agronak growled back. "Now move and let her through, before I teach you the difference." Easing his battered shield from its resting place on his pack, he adjusted it on his arm.

"_No. Bad._" Cerisse's sudden outburst, the harsh language of the harpies escaping from her lips, surprised them all. The Orcs stared at her, as if she'd suddenly been possessed by evil spirits, while Agronak was dumbfounded at her meaning. He knew she didn't like violence, but he couldn't see many other options at this point. And it wasn't as if she added much to the stand-off, standing frozen on the spot, squawking out confusing suggestions.

"Noisy bitch," the short one muttered. "I'm not sticking around for the guards to show up."

With a vicious smile, Urzog twirled his mace, sliding it into a loop on his belt with a practiced flourish. "See you around, _half-breed_." Keeping his distance, he stepped past Agronak, leading his companions away on the deserted street.

"What was that?" Agronak asked Cerisse when they were alone, switching back to Common. He resisted his conflicting urges to hug her while shaking some sense into her. "Why didn't you call me? You couldn't handle that on your own."

"I was doing fine," she snipped, glaring up at him. "They get bored after a while then wander away. I'm used to it."

"That happens _often?_" Looking back down the street, lined with closed doors and shut windows, he relaxed when he didn't see anyone else about.

"I'm a Breton in Orsinium," she answered with a bitter smile, falling into step beside him. "It's how things are."

"That's not right," he frowned, disappointed at her statement. He'd hoped to find something better here in the homeland of the Orcs, something more noble than the common contempt he'd met in Wayrest. It was disappointing to discover the Orcs didn't hold themselves to a higher standard than their neighbours. "It's always like this?"

"Oh, no," she hastily began to explain, "I don't mean everyone is like this. But there are some, like them, who'll say things when you pass by, or they'll—"

She didn't get a chance to elaborate, her words turning into a shriek as Urzog's group of Orcs leaped out from an alleyway, Urzog's mace whistling through the air, narrowly missing Agronak's head. As Urzog attacked again, aiming a powerful strike towards his chest, Agronak noticed Cerisse vanish while he brought his shield up to deflect the blow. Urzog snarled as Agronak used his shield to drive the momentum of the attack down to the street, causing the Orc to stumble as he tried to regain his balance.

A strong fist slammed into Agronak's arm, sending up a dull pulse of pain. Not able to stop it from striking, he took the opportunity to twirl around when the bald Orc pulled his arm back in preparation for another blow, launching the thick edge of his shield up into the Orc's jaw.

Temporarily stunned by the blow, the Orc stepped back, hand coming up to touch the trickle of blood flowing from his mouth. Agronak didn't have time to follow up on his initiative, ducking as the short Orc aimed a powerful punch at his head. As he crouched down, he grabbed the collar of the short Orc's armour with one hand, and using his shield as a lever, turned his attacker's force against him by tossing him over his back, sending him flying to smack heavily into the bald Orc. They both went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Slippery bastard," Urzog jeered in Orcish as his mace grazed along Agronak's leg, leaving a streak of agony in its wake. "You're not so tough."

He could have responded in so many ways—pointing out the fighters in the Arena had more honour than to launch a cowardly surprise attack, or perhaps remind Urzog his odds had been reduced from three against one to an even tie—but he didn't bother. Instead, he decided to teach the Orc the subtle difference between _pride_ and _stupidity_.

Waiting until Urzog launched another attack, heavy mace tearing through the air, Agronak side-stepped the weapon, bringing his shield across his body in a forceful blow, hard enough to knock the mace from the Orc's hand while breaking a few small bones.

Fury clouded Urzog's features, the Orc's mind lost to a frenzy of anger. At that point the battle was over, Agronak recognizing the mindlessness of the whirling attacks. He blocked and counter attacked, using no other weapon than his shield and occasionally a fist to knock Urzog back, waiting out the moments until the Orc's mind caught up with his battered body.

It finally happened, a wall of pain making Urzog's nostrils flare and his eyes flutter. Suddenly gasping for breath, clutching his bruised and broken arms around his cracked ribs, he sank down to his knees. Risking a glance, Agronak looked over to Urzog's friends, the two Orcs closing their eyes while feigning unconsciousness under his watchful eye, clearly not wanting to experience the same sort of pummeling as their leader.

"No," the firm command was accompanied with a swift kick, the newcomer's steel-clad foot knocking the throwing dagger from Urzog's hand. "You've shamed yourself enough." Looking back, Agronak recognized the Orc with a smile. Not that he needed the help, but he was glad to see a friendly face. Gurak gave him a gruff greeting. "Agronak. I see you're still offering lessons."

"Free, as always," he answered back, gesturing towards the Orcs sprawled on the ground. "But I didn't expect to have so many students so soon."

"Urzog's good at taking advantage of free lessons, but not so good at remembering them," Gurak sneered down at the sullen Orc. He pointed his fingers at the dishonorable attackers, summoning two waiting guards from the alley. "My men'll be happy to teach him some more."

"Traitorous half-breed _pig_." Urzog's hateful insult, spat out as he was roughly hauled to his feet, earned him a sharp jab to the ribs, the guard loosing a low growl to demonstrate his displeasure at his prisoner's talkativeness.

As the guards hustled Urzog and his friends away, Agronak looked around, wondering what had happened to Cerisse. She'd gone invisible—he'd seen her vanish—but she hadn't reappeared yet. It wasn't until Gurak asked him what he was looking for did she come into view, stepping out from behind the small landing of a nearby building.

"Lady Hawkton," Gurak gave her a curt greeting, "I trust you aren't injured."

"No, thank you, Warlord," she answered, lowering her head meekly.

Without another look at her, Gurak turned back to Agronak. "I'll walk you to your inn." He didn't wait for a response, striding off down the laneway, sun sparkling off his polished steel armour. Agronak quickly caught up with him, able to keep pace despite the fire along his thigh. He felt a bit concerned about Cerisse's short legs, but every time he glanced back to see if she kept pace she'd give him a glare, a shake of the head, and an angry gesture for him to turn around.

"So you've finally made it to Orsinium." Gurak's words were a statement, not a question, the tone giving nothing away, no hint to indicate whether he was pleased or not to see his friend again. He led Agronak through a series of narrow passages, more often taking the alleys than the streets. "About time you came for a visit. I tried to arrange suitable entertainment for you, like we got in Bruma, but Urzog's the best I could do on short notice."

"Got much more lined up?" Agronak asked, playing along with the joke. He could feel his hands and forearms starting to swell under his armour, singing a lament about the differences between leather and solid metal. Maybe he should have used his shield more frequently than his fists. He'd never considered his sword—killing an Orc in Orsinium, even in self-defense, probably wasn't a good way to announce his presence in the city. Besides, he'd recognized Urzog's attack for what it was, another would-be warrior trying to prove his skills. Relatively harmless in the scheme of things, and a good way to keep him on his toes.

"Urzog's the worst of the lot," Gurak answered, following Agronak's gaze as he looked back to Cerisse. She quickly changed her expression to a supplicating smile before staring at her feet. Turning around, Gurak changed course, ducking down another dark alleyway. "Once word gets around you fought him off, you won't get many other challengers. Lucky break you bumped into him so soon."

"Get a lot of fights in the streets?" Distracted by the graffiti painted over the walls—all in Orcish, rather than Common—Agronak only half listened to the reply.

"Been getting worse lately. We're seeing less of the regular clan skirmishes, and more alliances—bigger numbers, worse injuries. Hopefully Gortwog will settle the succession before it gets too big for my guards to handle."

"You're in charge of the law here? I thought you used to be in the army," Agronak inquired as they stepped out onto a wide avenue. Pedestrians crowded the walkways, while wagons and horses jostled for space in the street. It took a moment for him to realize why the scene was so similar to every other town, and yet so different, but it finally struck him—every person passing by was an Orc. Never had he seen anything like it.

"I'm still a warlord," Gurak replied, pressing a path through the crowd, careless of those who bumped off him as he strode past. Nobody protested, through a few gave him dark looks and foul mutters when he was out of sight. "Gortwog put me in charge of the guards a couple of months after I got back from Bruma." He shook his head, slowing his pace a little. "They ever get the wreckage of those gates cleaned up?"

"Nah. Turned it into a monument."

"Clever." Gurak smiled for a change, amusement lightening the faint scowl he always seemed to wear. The only indicator Agronak had noticed to the Orc's true feelings lay in his eyes, and even those rarely gave anything away. But then, it hadn't been an easy time in Bruma, handling the brunt of the attempted daedric invasion. Gurak never appeared to be anything except thoughtful during his stay. The rest of Gortwog's forces—sent to aid the motley army assembled at Bruma—were friendlier, quicker with a joke, but it was Gurak that Agronak found himself listening to when it mattered.

As they walked into the entranceway of the elegant inn, Agronak began to understand how high his friend ranked in the social hierarchy of the town. Maids and clerks bowed to him, well-dressed lords and ladies greeted him with polite words, and the proprietor of the inn himself came out to inquire about his needs.

"_Lord_ Lovidicus," Gurak stressed the title, pointing over his shoulder to Agronak, "needs a room."

The innkeeper leapt into action, stealing the room ledger from a busy clerk, flipping through the pages while muttering, fingers of his free hand flicking as he made some mental calculations. "How many days will his Lordship be staying?"

Agronak wasn't exactly sure. Glancing around, hoping Cerisse could help him provide a firmer estimate, he couldn't spot her. With a shrug, and some wondering where she'd gotten to now, he guessed. "At least a few days, maybe a week. I don't have an exact date..."

"I don't need one," the Orc answered, scratching something out in his ledger. "Your room will be ready within the hour..."

"Hour?" Gurak asked, his voice crackling with practiced authority. "He's ridden through the western pass—he shouldn't have to wait so long."

The innkeeper gave an apologetic bow, before snapping his fingers to wave over several of his staff. After a hasty huddle, as well as some commands to '_offer her anything she wants, but get her out of there_,' he returned as his employees scattered, the maids almost running as they raced towards the stairs. "It will be mere minutes. They're putting the finishing touches on our best suite as we speak. As soon as the registration is finished, I'll personally escort him to his room." As the thought occurred to him, he added some more details with a grand smile. "His _complimentary_ room."

With another snap of his fingers, the innkeeper summoned over a nearby clerk. In between answering the standard questions, Agronak spoke quietly with Gurak. "Thanks for the help, but I'm in no rush."

"Nonsense," Gurak retorted. "It's your due. Nobody can say we don't know how to treat a lord here in Orsinium."

"It's a nice change," Agronak murmured, watching as Cerisse finally entered the inn. He saw the reason for her slow progress, the way she kept darting aside to make room for any and all passing Orcs. She gave him a brief glare when she noticed him looking at her, before heading to the far end of the counter. Strange little nymph—he needed to ask her about her odd looks when they were finally alone.

"Bretons can be..._Bretons_." The diplomatic answer made them both chuckle. Gurak continued, resting his hand on the counter, heedless of the corner of parchment crumpling under his metal-clad fingers. "Have you eaten?" Upon learning Agronak hadn't, he gestured towards the street. "Then you'll dine with us tonight at the Warhammer Club. After you freshen up, of course."

"We'll be there," Agronak happily accepted. "Will the others from Bruma—"

"_We_?" Gurak interrupted, staring past Agronak to Cerisse, watching her being ignored by the clerks as they waited on those who arrived after her. "It's an Orc only club."

"Of course," Agronak hastily bluffed, "Me. I meant, I will be there. You know this escort business, you get used to saying _we_...so, where did you say the club was?"

* * *

By the time Gurak finished giving the simple directions (just three doors down the street, large sign out front, can't miss it), the innkeeper was hovering around the edges of the conversation, eager to show his honoured guest to his room. Clapping Agronak on the shoulder, Gurak said his farewells. "Take your time. Nobody gets there early." He paused, before giving a curt nod. "It is good to see you again."

Agronak watched the warlord walk out to the street, head high, confidence in every step. Finally acknowledging the proprietor's lurking presence, he was rewarded with snapping fingers and a flurry of employees eager to carry his bags. Amused by their reverence, he glanced over to Cerisse, expecting to share the humorous moment. But she still waited passively by the counter, patiently allowing everyone else to go first.

"It is our finest room. We don't let just anyone stay in it," the innkeeper enthused, talking up his establishment as he took hold of Agronak's arm. He gently tried to guide his important client to the stairs. "Only the right class of..."

"Why is she still waiting?" Agronak brusquely asked, shaking off the Orc's hand. He had no intentions of leaving Cerisse alone, especially since he still carried her luggage.

"What, the Breton?" the Orc asked, baffled by his interest. "We can't give her a room until our other patrons have registered. Imagine what would happen if we gave her a room, and then had to turn away..." His glib explanations faltered under Agronak's glare, and he shrunk back a little while he quickly tried to soothe his esteemed guest, "...ah, I meant to say, and we hadn't turned the room over. Wouldn't want a guest to have a dirty room, would we?"

Roughly tugging over the nearest assistant, the innkeeper gave a hissed command, before shoving the startled Orc in Cerisse's direction. His amends made, he continued to try to charm Agronak, grandly speaking of the importance and history of his inn, while listing some of the more notable people who'd slept under its roof.

Fortunately her transaction was brief, sparing Agronak from a recitation of the dignitaries who'd last visited. With Cerisse trailing along, he had the Orc take them first to her room, explaining he had to see his duty as escort fulfilled. The innkeeper appeared mollified by that, seeming to understand Agronak's concern.

"It's perfect," Cerisse lied smoothly, graciously thanking the innkeeper. Agronak wasn't impressed—apart from the higher quality of the furnishings, and the lack of oil pots below the bedposts, it wasn't much roomier than the dreadful inn he'd stayed at in Wayrest. But she gave him another one of her warning looks, so he didn't protest on her behalf.

With Cerisse safely tucked away the innkeeper brightened, escorting Agronak upstairs while effusively listing all of the amenities and services his staff could provide. Anything he wished, on the house—so long as he made sure to mention how well he was being treated to Gurak.

Thanking the Orc for all of his help, as well as politely nodding his gratitude at the empty-handed staff who'd followed along, perpetually offering to carry his light pack, Agronak managed to send them off, leaving him alone in the grand suite. As he began to get out of his armour, eager to sink some healing spells into his arm, he caught a floral scent on the air. Sniffing carefully as he worked his cuirass off, he walked over the plush rug, around the decadently covered bed, and past the fine wardrobes. It wasn't the flowers in the vases he smelt, but an expensive blend of perfume. Whoever she was, they'd hustled her out so quickly she'd left her scent behind.

He exhaled with relief once his armour came off, his sore hands and bruised thigh grateful to be free of the constricting leather. Inspecting his minor injuries, absently flicking off minor spells to quell the swelling, he began preparing a bath. Between yesterday's journey, sleeping on the rocky floor of the cave with nothing but an old bedroll for cushioning, the day's travels, and the fight with Urzog, his muscles ached for some soothing heat and a nice rest.

Regretting the absence of witch salts, as well as the nymph who frequently accompanied them, he sank gratefully into the large tub. Apparently in Orsinium they designed the baths for Orcish bodies with room to spare. A large sigh escaped him as he slipped down, letting his head dip underwater, warmth penetrating every weary limb.

He lingered like that for a while, letting only enough of his face surface to breathe, listening to his underwater cocoon—the rumbling noise when his feet grazed against the side of the tub, and the splashes when he jostled the water. Sitting back up, wiping the moisture from his eyes, he startled when he heard the soft click of metal falling into place.

"Who's there?" he demanded, tensing his muscles, ready to spring.

"Shh," Cerisse whispered as her invisibility spell fell away, "keep your voice down."

"I thought I'd locked my door," he grumbled, watching as she came to kneel beside the tub. The dark smudges under her eyes, telltale signs of her restless night, almost matched the bruises on his arms.

"It's a simple lock, no magical protection to it," she answered while draping her arms on the edge of the bath. The fingertips of one hand dipped into the water, sending droplets to fly as they impatiently tapped out her unsettled thoughts.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, a little concerned about her. She'd been through a lot yesterday, and having to face violence again so soon probably hadn't helped. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, but there's things you _could_ have done," she replied, trailing off into a deep sigh. With darting glances, her eyes not meeting his, she continued. "Or _not_ done, which would've been better."

He stared back at her, feeling the tension knotting in his body, disappointed it had come to this so soon. He recognized all the classic signs – the cryptic comments, the brittle attitude, the hazy talk of how _he should have known_. If he could read minds he would've joined the Psijics instead of the Arena, but none of his lovers ever seemed to consider that. No, they'd rather wait for him to somehow guess what they wanted, then get upset when he never did guess right. He'd hoped Cerisse wouldn't be like that, but here she was, ready to start a quarrel over imagined slights.

"What was it this time?" he asked, hard edge to his voice. "It's because I didn't introduce you to Gurak, isn't it? Or the way you were treated by the staff? I tried to make it better for you—"

"That's just it, isn't it?" she interrupted, flicking her hand to send a splash towards his toes. She still didn't look at him. "I never should have let you come here so unprepared. It's all my fault."

He stared at her, wondering what madness had taken hold in his little nymph's exhausted mind. She felt _guilty_ about...something, he wasn't at all sure what. While he was glad she wasn't trying to pick a fight, he wasn't at all happy she was behaving so strangely. "Maybe you should get some sleep. You aren't making any sense."

"Goddess' grace, you don't know even know what you've done, do you?" She looked over at him, wide eyes in smudged sockets regarding him with surprise. "Because of me, you've already got a reputation for being pro-Imperial. You've already taken sides."

"Sides in _what_?" he demanded, water splashing against the sides of the tub as he sat up. If she didn't start making sense soon, he'd put her to bed whether she wanted it or not.

"In the age old debate," she muttered, resting her chin on her arm. "Of Orcs against everyone else."

"Alright, that's enough. Bedtime for you," he stated, gripping the sides of the tub in preparation to stand. "I think you're so tired you're dreaming out loud."

"What? No, sit down." She pressed his shoulder down, her strength not nearly enough to stop him, but her intentions halting his attempts to rise. "I keep forgetting you're new to it all. I need to fill you in before you go off to dinner. I wouldn't want things getting worse."

As she lifted her hands off him, he tried to get comfortable again. The heat of the water felt so delightfully soothing to his aching muscles. Giving her a nod to keep speaking, he began sending some mild restoration spells into the discoloured flesh of one forearm. The bruises didn't need to be fully healed, but he at least wanted to change them from livid purple to mildly green.

"Gortwog has always been clear on his purpose. To set the Orcs as equals amongst all other races," she explained, watching him work. "The debate lies in how that should be accomplished. Gortwog, and many of his warlords, believe by working with, and being accepted as a part of, the Empire it will lead to the best results."

"Not everyone agrees?" He switched his magical ministrations to his other forearm.

"Oh, no. There have always been those who think it isn't enough. That by begging for Imperial aid, Gortwog is lowering himself, dragging his kin down with him. They believe only by declaring the superiority of their race will they gain their entitled mastery."

"What?" he asked, pale blue light of his interrupted spell fading away in the air. "Mastery over what? Do they hope to take over the Empire?"

She let out a sharp laugh at the question. Trailing a finger along his bicep, letting him continue his work, she elaborated. "No, they want nothing to do with the Empire. What they want is _Orsinium gro-Orsimer_," she growled out the Orcish phrase, before repeating its rough translation in Common. "Orsinium for the Orcs."

"But they've got that," he pointed out. "Gortwog is King of Orsinium."

"Ah, but it's not really a kingdom, is it?" she asked with a wink. "At least, not until we've done our part. Even still, it's not recognition they're after. It's complete control over _their_ domain." A small taint of bitterness slipped out into her words, prickling his attention as he wondered what had caused it. "It was different in the beginning, so I've often heard. When the small piece of territory that became Orsinium was given to Gortwog, many Breton families fled, leaving their homes and holdings behind to the terrifying _monsters_. For those who chose to stay, which were few, they were seen not as spies, or squatters, but _allies_. Gortwog recognized they'd chosen to become pariahs, because they saw Orcs not as enemies, but _neighbours_. Following his lead, they were warmly welcomed into his court."

"Your father must have some interesting stories," Agronak remarked, resting back against the tub, letting his magicka recharge before he continued his work. "I think I can see why Orsinium Hawktons aren't viewed the same way as the Menevian kind in Wayrest."

She smiled, plucking his near hand from the water. Pressing it between her palms, he watched as she again compared sizes of her dainty hands and his massive one. She never seemed to tire of it, or cease being amazed by the difference. "My whole family has great stories. But they haven't been as amusing since the Warp in the West. That's when things began to change. When the peace negotiations finally settled, Orsinium ended up with almost as much territory as the other Iliac Bay kingdoms. It was different—far less people left, and most of the nobility refused to give up their estates. Not that Gortwog asked them to."

"But that was good, wasn't it?" he inquired from behind closed eyes. Between the warmth of the water, and her gentle touch, he felt very relaxed. "They didn't run this time. They chose to stay with the Orcs."

"Ah, well, it depends how you look at it. This is when the debate really began." She paused to press his hand against her cheek, nuzzling into it with a kiss. "Those who agree with Gortwog think it demonstrates their point. By proving they can live amongst others and flourish, the reputation of Orcs will change for the better. I personally agree with them. It's harder to see in Wayrest, where history runs so bitter between them, but in other parts of the province the people are becoming very accepting of Orcs. It's so different in Daggerfall, or Sentinel. There, it doesn't really matter."

"Remind me to go there instead the next time I take a vacation," he joked.

She murmured a non-committal noise, not particularly mirthful, in response. After a brief pause, and a soft sigh, she continued. "Problems came with the new territory. The nobles, in particular. They wanted nothing to do with Orsinium, refusing to pay taxes. Gortwog tried to keep it quiet, but the rumour that Bretons were flaunting Orcish authority spread quickly, stirred up by those who disagreed with him. And then there was the matter of the mines. The treaty hadn't properly covered off what would happen with them. With one misplaced word, nobody was sure if they were the property of their original owners, Gortwog, or the men who worked them."

"That must have gotten ugly," he added, opening his eyes. Lifting up his bruised leg, he hooked his knee on the edge of the tub, letting his calf rest along the cool marble. The small healing spells he sent into the sore flesh felt wonderful.

As did the curious exploration of her hands continued, busy marveling over the size of his dripping leg. She measured the length of it, comparing from her fingertip to elbow against his knee to ankle. She came up rather short. "It did. There was fighting, and angry debates in Gortwog's chambers, but it wasn't until the Hawksley Mine massacre did he officially decree possession of the mines stayed in the hands of the original owners. That's when the opposition truly began to campaign against him, making it sound as though he'd ruled in favour of the Empire against his own people." She shook her head at the idea. "He was only being fair, and just. If he'd taken the mines, he'd have stolen them, which is far less honorable. But they never mention that if you ask."

"What about when Elysana gave him part of Menevia? Did the same thing happen?"

"No, they were both too savvy to let the same mess occur. It took almost two years, but Elysana and Gortwog managed to keep things peaceful with a lot of careful planning. She approached the nobles, offering gold in exchange for their estates, or businesses, or mines. And Gortwog made certain to assure all those who stayed they'd encounter no trouble, nor would anyone try to steal their land."

"Clever," he murmured, feeling grateful he didn't have to worry about things like this. Suddenly Durus' grumpy complaints that his neighbour's fence was on his side of the property seemed like very minor matters indeed.

"Well, yes, but his opponents are clever too. Again, they pointed at his actions, making it out as though he and Elysana were close confidantes, that he'd lost sight of the needs of the Orcs. And they seized on the start of the treaty, in which Elysana _gifted the land in token of Wayrest's friendship and esteem_." Cerisse shook her head as she let out a heavy sigh. "Ever since it's been argued that if it was a _gift_, then the land—and the buildings, mines, and farms—should be the rightful property of the Orcs, making the Bretons who live in the region nothing but delinquent tenants."

"Squatters," he guessed, slipping his leg back under water. He remembered the way Urzog had growled the word, as if it was the lowest of insults.

"Yes. Over time the term began to apply to all Bretons living in Orsinium, even those who were there from the start." She relinquished his hand, resuming her position draped over the edge of the tub.

"Like your family," he offered, watching as she nodded her head softly, small frown on her lips. "But what about those who welcomed them in the beginning? Have they changed their minds?"

"No," she quickly stated, "they're still as friendly as ever. The problem isn't that those in power think the Bretons should go, but those against them are the ones agitating for expulsion of everyone who isn't Orcish. As it always happens, the lesser elements of society—criminals, opportunists, idiots—are eager to join the cry, taking up whatever anti-Gortwog slogan comes their way. They're much more likely to act on it, with threats, harassment, and even violence. And of course, if a Breton ever fights back, they're portrayed as being a typical example of their _evil_ race."

"Is that why you were so passive when those Orcs were bothering you?" he asked, grimacing at the remembrance.

"Partly," she answered with a weak smile. "As I was trying to tell you while you were sightseeing, social norms are different here. If you offered to help a lady sit at the dinner table, you'd be insulting her, and her family, by implying she was weak. It's a point of pride to be strong, and fearsome. You can fight with someone as a sign of friendship, but you should never make it look as though you're coming to the rescue."

"So I've insulted your entire family?" Agronak goggled. Oh dear, he hadn't meant to do that at all. Maybe he should write Evie an apology and send it off through the Mages Guild. On second thought, he'd have to apologize doubly if he did that – he was pretty sure which mage would want to personally deliver the note.

"What?" She chuckled at the question, tension relaxing from her posture. "No, I was talking about Orcs. You can make Bretons look as weak as you like. Nobody worries about that. The problem is you're new here, you're only half Orc, you're somehow friends with one of Gortwog's most powerful warlords, and you've already made it abundantly clear you're on good terms with Bretons. I'm sure everyone thinks you're pro-Imperial by now."

"Well, I'm half-Imperial, I'm lord of a Cyrodiilic village, and I'm friends with the Emperor. I can't see how they'd expect me to be anything else," he joked, sitting higher up in the tub. He'd tended to the worst of the bruises, but a couple of dark ones lingered on his chest. "So I hardly think you've made me do anything to surprise them."

Her mouth dropped open as she tried to think of some way to protest his dismissal, but the only noise she made was a long exhalation of relief as his words sunk in. "Not when you put it that way, no," she agreed. "But I still want you to ignore me as much as possible while we're here. I've worked very hard to keep a low profile in Orsinium and Wayrest. When they ignore you, they sometimes forget you might be listening," she added with a coy smile. "And don't forget you're famous here, so everyone will be paying attention to what you do. I'm worried even if you're nothing but cold to me, someone, somewhere, will misinterpret something and start rumours about us."

"Why is that such a bad thing?" he asked, giving her a wink.

"It's dangerous, for reasons I'd rather not get into," she replied quietly, looking over at his toes, pointedly avoiding his eyes. "When I get back it won't matter as much, but even still we should be careful."

He shook his head, still displeased she intended to disappear somewhere without him, all the while refusing to explain where or why. If he was asked, he was to make vague comments about her visiting family. Despite her assurances, he knew he'd worry until she returned safely back at his side.

"Who hit you there?" she asked, noticing the small, angry bruises on his chest. "I don't remember seeing Urzog connect with anything other than your leg. But then, I was a bit distracted."

Lifting up the small hand hovering over the marks, he gave it a kiss. "You did. You hit pretty hard, for a nymph."

He laughed as he watched her face, her conflicting emotions apparent as her features tried to choose which mood to display. There was amusement at his term for her, dismay at the damage she'd caused, and something else, a hint of tenderness around the eyes, a shy smile at the corners of her mouth.

With a shake of her head, she cleared away her thoughts. "I'm sorry for that. Let me fix it." Pausing, her hands pressing gently over the worst of the bruises, she broke out into a grin. "But I'm no nymph. Unless I'm Lysorya, who looks sort of like one. But they're even more attractive than her."

"I think you're the most attractive wild creature I've ever seen," he replied, stroking her face with wet fingers, "so as far as I'm concerned, that makes you my little nymph."

There it was again, the odd expression she sometimes wore. Eyes darting around, shyly watching him, flush on her face, and the twitching corners of her smile as she fought to keep it under control. She always looked so delighted with something when she acted like that.

And she always tried to hide it, this time by whispering a spell, sending a golden trickle of energy from her arms into his skin. He pulled away before she could repeat it, frowning at the assistance. "That's the spell you used on that Bosmer, isn't it?"

"It flows both ways," she replied, puzzled at his reaction. "I can share health as well as steal it. Let me finish..."

"No," he said firmly, grabbing her wrists to keep her hands away from the bruises. "You're in worse shape than I am. I know you barely slept last night. Keep your energy."

"Thank you," she whispered, rising off the floor so she could bend over the tub to give him a gentle kiss. "You're right, I need to get some sleep. I'll be leaving well before dawn. And you should hurry, to get ready for dinner. I know Gurak said not to rush, but I also know you've got a habit of being late to important dinners."

"I _told_ you, I was trapped in the labyrinth," he protested, standing up in the tub. With the extra height it gave him he towered over her, feeling like some dripping predator, risen from the darkest swamp to wreak a path of destruction. Though he didn't feel quite so aggressive, he was getting ideas about carrying her off...

"I still can't see how," she teased, tossing him his towel along with orders to dry off and get dressed. "It's really not that complicated."

"In the fog it is," he grumbled back "Can't see much more than an arm's-length in front of you, with nothing but the same damned hedges and statues to be found."

"Only an arm's-length?" she pondered. "But if your arms are so long, then that isn't much of an excuse at all, is it?"

She danced out of reach as he tried to grab her, instead throwing his pants at him with stern commands to get ready. He quickly did as she asked, noting how quiet and still she got whenever she stopped talking. It looked as though she would fall asleep where she stood.

"Enjoy yourself, and try to remember what I've told you while I'm gone."She patted his tunic into place, fussing with the laces. Satisfied with his appearance, she threw her arms around him. "I'm going to miss you."

"Then don't go," he replied, hugging her back.

"I wish I didn't have to, but I made my decision days ago. It's time I followed through." She moved away, then changed her mind, grabbing his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"I'm never the one getting into trouble. Everyone else does it for me," he corrected her with a wink. Finally stepping back from him, she wove her invisibility spell about her, disappearing from view.

With a deep bow, he stood to the side, then opened the door grandly. He didn't notice the figure on the other side, nor did she until she bumped into it, her spell falling away, her distraction as she looked back at Agronak readily apparent.

"Lady Hawkton," Gurak greeted her politely, his face as impassive as ever.

"Warlord," she replied, voice not much louder than a whisper. She quickly looked back to Agronak, valiantly trying to cover up her discovery. "Thank you again, Lord, for escorting me safely to Orsinium. I should very much like to travel back with you when you leave, should our journeys align."

Deciding not to match her flowery politeness, Agronak settled for a deep grunt. He was almost certain she nodded in approval at it.

Paying her retreating figure no more attention than Gurak, he greeted his surprise visitor. The Orc briefly surveyed the room, before nodding to Agronak. "I see you've settled in. Are you ready to go?"

Agronak was more than ready, grateful the Orc never seemed to spare a thought for Cerisse, or what she'd been doing sneaking out of his room.


	29. The Nuances of Orcish Entertainment

"Are we late? I thought you said nobody came early," Agronak inquired, surveying the packed room. The concentric circles of tables, each ring set higher than the last, were filled with diners enjoying their meals as they watched the entertainment below. The large ring in the centre of the club held two combatants, already well into their fight.

"We're early," Gurak assured him, gesturing to an empty balcony high above the other tables. It offered a commanding view—both of the battles below, and for the others to look up at those on display. "I told you nobody gets here until later." Catching a harried waiter by the arm, he ordered drinks. "It's mead for you, right?" he inquired of Agronak.

Agronak gave a nod. He'd always found it the safest thing to order for consistent quality. Rarely was it a good sign when he had to resort to ale—those barkeepers who couldn't manage to keep a few bottles of mead on hand tended to be the ones to avoid. Or if that wasn't possible, the safest course was to try not to taste too much, at least until the alcohol kicked in.

"These are the warm up matches," Gurak explained, motioning to the fighters locked in a bloody grapple. "The main event won't be for a couple of hours. It's an unusual one...you wouldn't be interested in betting on it, would you?"

"I don't know who's fighting," Agronak replied, watching one warrior stumble, his knee collapsing under a well-aimed kick—a painful injury, and a hampering one.

"Then you'll have to see them." Gurak handed Agronak the mug of mead he swiped from the tray of a passing waiter. Agronak was fairly sure it wasn't the same waiter with whom they'd placed their order, but the Orc didn't protest, merely nodding before turning around to head back to the bar. "This way."

Gurak pressed through the aisles, causing waitstaff and diners alike to stand aside or get knocked down. Agronak stuck close, trailing behind in the gap his friend left,constantly reminding himself while this sort of behaviour would be the height of rudeness in Cyrodiil, it was expected here. At least, he hoped it was...

"Bugrol is the favourite," Gurak explained as he led Agronak into a wide room.

A large, muscular Orc stood on a raised platform, surrounded by curious onlookers and enthusiastic gamblers. Calls and jeers filled the air as the spectators shouted to Bugrol, demanding he jump, punch the air, kick high—various feats to demonstrate his prowess. Agronak had to admit the Orc showed skill, with a lot of power behind his moves.

"What's his record?" Agronak asked, observing as an old lady demanded Bugrol touch his toes, then reach up while jumping as high as he could. It took a moment before he complied, but once he did he moved nimbly enough.

"Undefeated," Gurak grunted, "which is why the payout is two to one on him. He shows promise."

Agronak gave a non-committal grunt as he observed the reactions of the fighter to the crowd's demands. Satisfied he'd seen enough, he asked Gurak about Bugrol's opponent.

"Yambul's an odd one," the warlord replied as they strode down a narrow hall. The scent of sweat, old blood, and victory brought a flood of memories to Agronak's mind. "Lost a few matches to opponents he shouldn't have, but he's worked his way up."

The first thing Agronak noticed was the relative quiet, Yambul observing the sparse group in the room from his vantage point on the platform, ignoring all shouted requests, regardless of how they were presented. The fighter's eyes flickered over the new arrivals before darting to the side, tracking as a couple of gamblers wandered off to the door. The Orc was fit, but small compared to his opponent.

"The payout?" he asked Gurak, studying the warrior critically.

"Ten to one. Not many are taking the bet." Gurak answered with a shrug.

"That's high," Agronak murmured, surprised by the odds. Rarely had he seen payouts of more than five to one, in all his years in the Arena. The last time he'd seen anything so close was a couple of years ago, with Lilia's unusual 'mage' battle. He'd made a good profit off of that match, choosing to bet on her apparent insanity to keep her alive. Even still, he'd only gotten back a sevenfold profit, and that was with everyone _convinced_ she'd lose.

"As I've said, he's lost a few," Gurak reiterated. "To lesser opponents—whelps, grey-hairs, idiots—fighters everyone expected him to win against. Some of the matches were an embarrassment."

Agronak was intrigued. Yambul didn't behave like a nervous underdog, and he didn't have the vain air of a fighter trying to bolster his image and ego with false bravado. If anything he seemed comfortably confident as he looked from face to face. Not cocky—simply assured.

Curious, Agronak walked to the other side of the room, noting how the Orc followed his progress while still keeping track of the rest of the thin crowd. Finding Yambul to be boring, most didn't wait long before heading back to the hallway, a constant motion of people coming in as others left. He waited, leaning against the wall, until a group of chattering new arrivals caught Yambul's attention. With a subtle nudge he knocked over the chair beside him, sending it to the floor in a clattering racket.

As he picked it back up, Agronak pondered what he'd seen, mentally comparing the two fighters in his mind. Years of experience and observation based on his own opponents, as well as the countless matches he'd watched play out on the pale sands of the Arena made him a good judge of talent, while allowing him to guess what might happen when the fighters tested each other's skills.

"Think you know who'll win?" Gurak asked, dark eyes studying Agronak for clues.

"I might," Agronak answered, careful not to give away his thoughts. "How do you place a bet?"

With a hint of a smile, Gurak took him to the group of tellers responsible for taking the wagers. The Orc handling his transaction paused briefly when he told her what he wanted, but she completed the arrangements with discreet efficiency.

The coinpurse Cerisse had given him as 'payment' was considerably lighter when Gurak led him back upstairs, continuing along the winding staircase to the balcony level. A few others had already arrived, busy welcoming each other in loud voices, calling for drinks to the passing waiters. Agronak was pleased to see Ogdum and Khazor, two of the Orcs who'd come down to Bruma with Gurak. They greeted him heartily, with near cringe worthy thumps on his back. Ruefully, he realized he'd probably end up with more bruises at the hands of his friends than his enemies.

"Lord Lovidicus. I hope you're enjoying my hospitality."

Disentangling from Ogdum's crushing grip, Agronak turned to find a very attractive Orc waiting for his response. He was certain they'd never met before, but something about her struck him as familiar. Or maybe he just wished it—she was one of the most magnificent creatures he'd ever seen. "I'm sorry, do we know each other...?"

"Sharm. Sharm gra-Magon," she introduced herself with a bold smile and glittering eyes. "I believe you're staying in my room."

Multiple meanings shrouded the statement, and as he wondered if it would be bad form to apologize for the innkeeper's actions, he enjoyed the thrill of mutual attraction flaring between them. Nothing would come of it—he'd meant it when he'd told Cerisse he didn't share—but there wasn't anything to prevent him from amusing himself with a little harmless flirtation.

She spoke before he could say anything, words suggestive of so many pleasant ideas. "I don't mind. I've already been well compensated for my troubles." She lowered her voice a little, leaning a bit closer to confide a secret, her perfume—an intoxicating blend—transporting him back to the lingering scent in the opulent suite. "And I have every intention of reclaiming that comfortable bed as soon as I get the chance."

"I'm sure you won't have to wait too long," he answered, playing along.

"Sharm." Gurak's curt greeting interrupted their chat.

She turned to face him, her hip brushing against Agronak's thigh. She left it there, contact heat sizzling into his awareness, her casual attitude hiding her thoughts. "Gurak. You must be pleased—two guests to play host to. I'm sure you'll have the staff hopping all night on _our _behalf." The word, warm and wicked, slipped out from her dark lips. In that moment it was all too apparent who she included in her definition of _our_.

The warlord stared at her, unspoken messages passing between them, ones that made Agronak vaguely uneasy. If she and Gurak had some sort of history, he had no desire to make it worse, even if he was planning nothing more terrible than some light flirting. But the Orc suddenly laughed, letting out a quick roar to startle the others, before nodding his head at Agronak. "I hope luck's on your side tonight. You're taking more gambles than you realize." His face slipping back into its passive scowl, Gurak moved off to speak with some new arrivals.

"He's never had much use for magic," Sharm brushed away Gurak's statement, turning her attention back to Agronak. Pausing, she blinked a few times, before reaching near the air beside his shoulder."But you must. You've got spirit energy all over you."

"Spirit energy?" he asked, feeling a slightly uncomfortable tug as she plucked one of his fae. The sudden impulse to snatch it back ran through him, but he managed to contain it.

"The basis of any shaman's power," she answered, bringing her palms close together, the trapped fae stuck between them. "You must be familiar with Orcish magic." At his admittance he wasn't, she smiled a contented cat-like smile. "Mmm, then a demonstration is in order."

She stepped back, extended her arms, then began to chant under her breath. It was a different form of magic, not the kind he'd learnt, the undercurrents sharp and biting as they swirled past his ears. A vortex of fiery energy popped into existence between her hands, the spell expanding as she fed it, until dark red twinkles, reminiscent of sparks from a bonfire, orbited around the flaming centre at a dizzying speed.

With a sharp cry she clapped her hands together, sending molten drifts of spell to shower onto the floor, like the cascading flecks from a hammer strike against red hot steel. The wood sizzled as the spell faded away, Sharm watching him with an approving expression.

"Impressive," Agronak offered, still trying to make sense of what she'd done. While it was unfamiliar, he felt the inherent power in her magic, the destructive forces contained within. He was starting to get a better idea of what Cerisse had meant when she said shamans could wield their magic to spectacular effect. Though he was pretty sure she wouldn't approve of Sharm's handling of his fae—he certainly didn't. "But can you do it without stealing the power from others?"

Sharm laughed at the question, a throaty sound evocative of secluded pleasures, before linking her arm in his. The others were seating themselves at the table, ready to begin the evening's feast. As she settled herself beside Agronak, she explained the concept of spirit energy. It wasn't what he expected, the shaman viewing fae not as entities to be respected, but as natural resources to be used at will. "It's no different than burning trees for heat. They grow back in time, and the bigger the tree, the more fuel you get."

"What if you've used all the nearby ones?" he inquired.

"Then you make your own. That's the first thing a shaman learns—how to pull energy from air and stone. There aren't many woods in the Wrothgarians."

Ogdum's clamouring for Agronak's attention stole his thoughts away from magic to matters of recent history. "Agronak, tell this fool," the Orc smacked Khazor hard in the shoulder, pointing out the fool in question, "those rumours of you killing a wereboar are greatly exaggerated."

Recognizing the invitation, Agronak accepted it with a smile. As he launched into his story, he gestured to a passing waiter, indicating he'd need another mug of mead. Recounting tales of battle was thirsty work.

The meal passed in a pleasant blur, Agronak happily sharing stories, enjoying the familiar atmosphere of admiration as those around the table marveled at his continued survival. Sharm occasionally whispered a tempting nothing at him, or let brushing contact turn into lingering pressure. It reminded him of happy evenings spent in the Feed Bag after a triumphant victory, Ilona in one of her better moods, the patrons of the inn generously offering token mugs of ale so they could bask in his reflected glory—even if only for a little while.

The magically enhanced voice of the announcer cut the stories short, the room falling silent as he introduced the two fighters, offering a brief rundown of their statistics before readying them for battle. At his cry of _Go! _the room exploded in noise, the patrons slamming their fists on the tables while shouting out the name of one of the warriors. Just as the majority of the voices did, those dining with him called out for Bugrol.

"Will you not declare your pick?" Gurak asked, having noticed Agronak's unfamiliarity with the proceedings.

"You placed a bet?" Khazor demanded, looking away from the circling warriors. "Easy money, isn't it? Bugrol's unstoppable."

"I hope not," Agronak answered mildly, "since I bet on Yambul."

The Orc's surprised curse was lost in the deafening roar of the crowd as Yambul dodged Bugrol's powerful swing, the warrior's heavy warhammer missing by less than a hands-breadth. But Agronak knew it didn't matter how close a miss was—so long as it failed to hit, that was all that mattered.

Yambul's strikes, while not as powerful as his opponent's, made contact again and again. The Orc used a cunning strategy, waiting until Bugrol, far slower by comparison, had committed his body to a course of action before seizing the opportunity to get in a hit, no matter how minor.

While Agronak watched the match play out as he'd expected, Bugrol's slow reactions woefully inadequate to handle his opponent's ever changing patterns. Agronak noticed Gurak studying him from time to time. He couldn't help giving the warlord a smug grin, especially when Bugrol went down, knocked out by a glancing blow to the temple. It was not a particularly well placed hit, but in combination with the beating the Orc had already sustained, it was enough.

"I'll send a runner to pick up your winnings," Gurak said, putting his hand out for Agronak's betting slip. His eyes momentarily widened when he saw the amount, before he barked for a passing waiter to take it to the tellers as fast as his clumsy feet could carry him. The Orc ran off immediately, leaving Gurak to continue studying Agronak. "You were..._sure _of your bet," he searched for the word, clearly trying to find a polite way to express his surprise at Agronak's large wager. "How did you know?"

"I've seen it before," Agronak replied, answering Gurak, but addressing the table. The others were also intensely curious at his apparent ability to predict the future. "It's a rare strategy—most warriors have too much pride to consider it—but it happens from time to time. Yambul raised the stakes on purpose."

"You mean he lost to that gangly idiot last week by _choice_?" Ogdum exclaimed, bewildered by the thought. "How could he give up his honour?"

"It's not such a loss when it's soothed with gold," Gurak rumbled. Chatter sprang up around the table, as the selling price of Yambul's honour was speculated on, most of the group loudly declaring they'd never be tempted to do the same thing, no matter the prize.

Gurak rose, walked over to Agronak, tapped the shoulder of the Orc beside him, and sent him off with a wordless gesture. Sinking into the abandoned chair, he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Gortwog won't be able to see you until Loredas. What were your plans for the meantime?"

Agronak wasn't entirely sure. Those were two days he'd have to waste, and he didn't have a nymph to fill them with. "I'll probably look around, see the town. I hear the smiths here are the best in the Empire."

Gurak looked Agronak over with his scrutinizing gaze, before speaking. "There's few weapons on Nirn better than the one you're carrying."

"I'm not after something for me," Agronak hastily explained. He'd visited every weapons shop he could during his travels with Cerisse, and he'd still not found what he'd originally set out to get. "I'm looking for a staff. For Ysabel—the Arena battle matron. She hates having to get up to beat sense into the pit dogs, so I'm trying to find her something she can use to poke them from her seat." It was a story he'd quickly come up with at Cerisse's insistence. She'd offered to purchase it instead, claiming it was for Cyovta's use, but he vetoed the proposal. The story would falter when he carried it back to Cyrodiil, rather than leaving it with Cerisse.

"That's very generous of you," Gurak murmured.

"She's never really forgiven me for retiring," he confessed. At least Ysabel had stopped trying to attack him whenever he visited the Arena. Her shouts and curses never bothered him—it was almost calming at times, like listening to a familiar lullaby, one he'd often heard while falling asleep in the bloodworks.

Gurak nodded, satisfied with the explanation. He questioned Agronak as to what sort of staff he wanted, looking a little bemused by the exacting specifications, before he reached out and grabbed a passing waiter. "Get as many runners as you can find, and send them to all the smiths. They're to expect a visit from Lord Lovidicus tomorrow. He's looking for a staff—good balance, light weight, unenchanted, effective on all creatures. Tell them to prepare their inventory. I don't want him to have to wait."

"That's not necessary," Agronak protested mildly as Gurak sent the startled Orc off with a push. "I'm in no rush..."

"Nonsense," Gurak cut him off curtly. "No friend of mine should suffer from inexcusable delays. I'll send you a guide to take you around to the stores." With a quick gesture of his hand, palm held up to prevent Agronak from speaking, he continued. "It's no trouble, and I'd rather not have you bothered by any other idiots like Urzog. It makes more work for me."

With a chuckle Agronak accepted Gurak's offer, the warlord excusing himself as the first waiter, dispatched to fetch Agronak's winnings, returned with a heavy leather purse. After a quick check to make sure it was all there, Agronak strapped it to his waist, feeling the pull of his riches against his side. It _had_ been a large gamble, betting almost every piece of gold, but it certainly paid off. With the ten thousand he'd won, and the initial one thousand he'd wagered, he now had enough money to purchase his sword and shield from Cerisse. True, he could invest his gold back into Crowhaven, but with the anticipated earnings he'd receive from the deal brokered with Choctam, somehow that need didn't seem as pressing, at least not with his village leagues away, and the magnificent longsword pushing into his hip.

"I still say she used padding," Ogdum's growled declaration caught Agronak's attention. He watched as the two Orcs argued what seemed to be an oft-discussed debate.

"I'm telling you, they're real," Khazor replied, slamming his fist on the table in emphasis. Noticing Agronak's curious look, he suddenly smiled brightly as he included the newcomer in the conversation. "You know what they look like, don't you? Tell him they aren't fake."

"What aren't?" he asked, perplexed at the talk.

"Ever since Bruma he's been saying the Empress has really thick thighs," Ogdum elaborated, holding his large hands open in the approximation of a circle. "I've tried to tell him it was only her armour. Elven always makes legs look bigger. It's all those pieces."

Khazor thumped Ogdum in the arm, his non-verbal way of refuting his friend's statement. "I saw her fight in the Arena. That uniform didn't even have greaves. They're _huge_!"

Agronak laughed loudly at the debate, highly amused at the subject matter. "He's telling the truth," he admitted to Ogdum, "she's built like a golem." He'd never forget the way Lilia constantly cursed the webbing of spike-tipped leather strapped to her legs that formed part of her raiment. Especially when she managed to break one of them as she and Synderius pulled it in a tug of war, in an attempt to stretch it a little wider. Owyn hadn't even bothered asking how she managed to damage her armour outside of the Arena—with the way the Redguard considered her dafter than a troll, he probably hadn't wanted to know.

Ogdum's jaw dropped open, a combination of surprise and the heavy blow Khazor landed across his chest, in emphasis of the fact he'd been right all along. "It's true?" the Orc mused, leering grin on his face. "Then the Emperor really is one lucky bastard."

Agronak couldn't help laughing at that, deciding against explaining Imperials, in general, didn't consider massive thighs an attractive quality in their women. He found his own tastes varied, product of his unique upbringing. He appreciated a sturdy Nord just as much as a lithe Altmer—the relative merits of each race's ideal of beauty something he'd absorbed during his years in the Arena, seeing about everything there was to see pass through town.

"And what about yourself?" Sharm purred into his ear. "You seem to be rather lucky. Do you have anybody special to share your luck with?"

With a wink he deflected her question, not about to discuss his newly begun affair with Cerisse. He enjoyed bantering with her, the tantalizing friction between their words. And it didn't hurt Gurak seemed to notice it—hopefully he'd forget completely about Cerisse's unusual exit from Agronak's suite.

The rest of the evening passed in lively talk and the warmth of companionship. Agronak hadn't realized how much he'd missed being able to sit down with a group of relative strangers, to end up counting them as new friends. Other than the Hawktons, this option did not often appear to him during his travels in High Rock.

It was late when the party finally broke up, the lower levels of the club already emptied and clean, the staff impatiently waiting for their long working day to end, by the time the revelers on the balcony began making their farewells. Finding Sharm the only other individual staying at his inn, Agronak almost offered to escort her back before remembering it would probably come across as an insult, rather than a gracious gesture.

He needn't have worried, as she latched onto his arm while essentially ordering him to walk with her. It was a short trip along the near deserted street, the shops dark, citizens sleeping away the deepest part of night. The clerk behind the counter let out a squeak of surprise when Agronak and Sharm walked in, almost knocking his head on a table as he suddenly bowed low, welcoming them back. Waving off all offers of assistance, Agronak moved over to the staircase, Sharm doing the guiding.

"If it's not too much trouble, I think one of my amulets got left behind when the staff packed up my things," she breathed, leading Agronak to his room. "Would you mind if I looked for it? It's my favourite."

"Of course," he replied, unlocking the door. "I'll help. What does it look like?"

"It's topaz, cut in a circle," she explained, holding her fingers apart to demonstrate the size. "I fell asleep with it on yesterday. It might have fallen off overnight." She slipped off her shoes and crawled onto the bed. Kneeling on the pillows, she peered down into the crack between the headboard and the wall. "I think I see it," she called him over with a wave.

"Can you get it?" he asked, standing beside her, craning his head in an attempt to get a better look.

Sharm reached down into the gap, arm disappearing behind the pillows and linens, face contorted as she concentrated on trying to navigate by feel. With a sigh, she pulled her hand up empty. "My arm isn't long enough. Do you think you might...?"

He indicated for her to shift over. After kicking off his shoes, not wanting to mess up the fine bedding, he shuffled beside her, pressing his cheek against the wall as he looked down into the crevasse. The warm sparkle of gold came from below, where the wall met the floor.

With a grin he cast his spell, using telekinesis to grab hold of the wayward jewelry. It slid up along the wall, a soft sound marking its progress, before he snatched hold of it. He offered it to Sharm with a flourish, making a mental note to tell Cerisse just how useful his spell could be. Unless she could train fae to play fetch, he couldn't see how any of her magics would have helped much in this situation.

"My hero," Sharm's enthusiastic response burnt his thoughts away with the heat of her lips as she kissed him. He found himself unable to think, only able to react—passionately, desire washing over him like a second skin.

She loosed a throaty laugh when he pushed her down on the bed, encouraging his enthusiastic caresses. He wasn't able to form a thought, overwhelmed by the intense sensations occupying his mind—the smoothness of her skin; the pressure of her hands as she pulled him closer; the fire of _need_ as it danced over his skin, matched by the inferno raging inside.

And the irritating prickle of minor shocks, the talisman around his neck pulsing with biting magic, far worse than he experienced when he'd first put it on. Leave it to witches to enchant something with negative effects...

_Witches_. Memories of the coven—of a certain friend of the coven—bubbled up from the sludge of his mind. With a gasp he felt the spell around him waver, weaken, then finally burst, the charming magic flaking off him like shards from a shattered window.

He pushed off the bed, mentally reeling as his thoughts began to catch up. Sharm, wearing the brazen expression of one caught red-handed, but who didn't really mind, rested on her side and gave him an inviting smile. "I thought I'd help out. You seemed a bit shy..."

"Out!" he bellowed, the flames of desire quickly turning into a bonfire of _rage_. He fought to keep his anger under control, feeling it pressing against the constraints of his reason, desperately attempting to get loose.

She seemed to sense the danger, choosing to scramble to the opposite side of the room, putting the bed between them as a buffer. "I'm sorry," she hastily offered, "I didn't think you'd mind..."

But he was beyond apologies, every word she said in defense serving only to infuriate him further. He stalked over to the door, wrenching it open with such force it slammed into the wall, knob denting the plaster. "OUT!"

She hurried across the room in a nervous jog, stopping only once she'd stepped out into the hall. "My shoes," she whimpered in a dry-mouthed voice, barely louder than a whisper.

Spells being far beyond his grasp at that point, he covered the distance to her shoes in a couple of quick strides, before turning back with a snarl. "Don't you ever," he growled, throwing one of the shoes with such power the heel knocked a hole in the wall of the hallway, "cross my sight again!" The second shoe followed behind, creating another dent before clattering to the ground.

As soon as he took one step closer, planning to slam the door shut, she let out a worried squeak, grabbed the shoes from the floor, and fled down the hall.

He pushed the door closed with such violence the wood frame splintered with a loud crack, before turning the lock with shaking hands. He stepped back, closed his eyes, and waited out the tremors of fury coursing through his body.

As the anger started to melt away, he became aware of a cold, gnawing sensation in his stomach, and a fluttery feeling in his chest. It took a while to recognize it, a sensation he'd not felt in years, but he finally identified it as 'dismay'.

Never before had he worried about the tricks of illusionists, their manipulative spells of no more threat to him than an angry fly. But ever since he'd come to High Rock, where currents of magic unlike any other flowed around him, he realized he'd been something he'd long stopped thinking applied to him.

_Vulnerable_.


	30. Hiring a Suitable Guide

_Gortwog gro-Nagorm._

King_ of Orsinium._

The quill lifted off the parchment, moving through the air in a languid, fluid motion, before being placed delicately in the marble holder, unaware of the momentous words it had inscribed.

It was _done_.

Gortwog leaned back in his chair, carefully regarding the length of parchment on the desk. It wasn't the highest quality, its secretive life hinted at in the creases running through the length of it, and the way it curled up at the edges, necessitating small weights to hold it down at either end. All in all, quite unremarkable in appearance. But when he looked closer, reading over the assortment of signatures at the bottom, its true value became clear.

The High Chancellor of the Elder Council. The Queen of Wayrest. The Emperor of Tamriel.

And Gortwog gro-Nagorm, the first _true_ King of Orsinium.

The thin sheet of parchment, covered in some unknown scribe's fastidious hand, was the culmination of his life's work, the liberation of his people, the official goal of the struggles, hardships, and trials. What was done could not be undone.

Finally, _Orsinium gro-Orsimer_.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he reflected on his disparate enemies, the way they'd turned the phrase into so many meanings. Prejudiced Bretons, unaware of the various translations, snickering over the idea of 'Orsinium, son of the Orcs.' Xenophobic warlords, bandying it about as a war cry, shouting it in its possessive meaning of 'The Orsimer's Orsinium.'

However, he'd always held the true meaning was in its active form. Orsinium, _product_ of the Orsimer. Orsinium, _created_ by the Orsimer. Orsinium, _legacy_ of the Orsimer.

The smile blossomed as he mused on how often he'd thought _Orsinium gro-Gortwog_ might have been more accurate. His kin had never been the easiest to lead. He felt bitterness at it once, but acceptance and time polished this irritating burr smooth, just as the wind and snows softened the stairs leading up to the fortress, crisp risers melting into gentle curves.

He realized early on how the obvious, so easy for him to see, was somehow invisible to others. His clan thought him mad when he struggled to speak Common—not as Orcs normally did, with rough accent and missing words, but as flawlessly, fluently, as _they_ did.

Only when he deciphered the Breton's obscure tangles of law, searching for a way to work within their own system to beat them, finding the loophole allowing him to further his claim, did his kin finally grow interested. The history books had it wrong. He'd not tripped over the Common speech with a thick tongue when he presented his petition. He'd spoken more eloquently than Lord Bowyn, the man stammering for words when confronted with the incongruity of an articulate, witty _Orc_.

Once he won Orsinium, earned the small area of land surrounding the ancient fortress, he realized his work—and troubles—had only begun. How his brethren did forget. Did none recall their isolated existence, tolerated as no more important than the town beggar, something to be endured until they finally curled up and died? The shortages of the mountain-locked region when nearby traders refused to sell to them? The organized raids and attacks, nearby nobility turning a blind eye, claiming no authority over the random acts of bandits and rogues?

And, worst of all, the continuous silence from the heart of the Empire, no acknowledgment of their existence?

During that long stretch of silence he realized to truly beat them at their own game, he needed to become a worthy adversary. Throwing himself into the politics of the Bay, closely studying the others as they changed alliances as easily as they changed clothes, it quickly became apparent which currency held the most sway. It wasn't gold, or military might, but _knowledge_.

Powerful knowledge, no less, the kind of secrets that could destroy entire families, or turn towns into wastelands. Dark knowledge that should never be shared.

They underestimated him greatly at first, just as they underestimated the help his allies gave him. For there _were_ allies, even before the creation of Orsinium: friendly Bretons and Nords who cared nothing for their physical differences, judging his kin not on their appearance, but their merits. Some judged them worthy enough to stay, sacrificing their political standing to remain in Orsinium, their names to be tainted as fools and traitors. Little surprise then, the ease of convincing them to share whatever secretive knowledge they held...

They also underestimated his patience. It wasn't until he built up his network of sources, set his agents in place, and gleaned a scant—but effective—handful of information, did he finally make his first moves. True, the agents were, perhaps, a bit clumsy, plans not as deftly handled as his currently affairs were now, but nevertheless they proved remarkably effective. He shook the foundation of the nobility; the duchies, kingdoms, and territories startling when they finally recognized a new power in their midst.

It took longer for the Empire to recognize them, and not for many years did he receive word that an _official_ dignitary would descend upon Orsinium. How they'd worked to improve the area—sinking forests full of trees into the muddy rivers they'd called streets; imported entire wagon loads of plants , to be stuck into the ground after the last frost in an attempt to gentrify the hardscrabble mining town; attempting to somehow make a leaky, moldy, drafty fortress into a _palace_.

He'd been greatly surprised to find not a legion of soldiers escorting a fine carriage sweeping up the main street, but a solitary rattling wagon containing two mixed-breed nobodies and their mutt of a daughter.

Though that surprise hadn't been as great as the one he'd received when the unusual child had hailed him in his own tongue, bestowing such an awed and polite greeting it was as if she was addressing the Emperor himself. It was the first time he'd been hailed as _King_ of Orsinium, an amusing mistake, for Orsinium hadn't been known as a kingdom back then. As he'd watched her observing everything with wide eyes, he understood in a moment of blinding revelation she saw not monsters in muck-stained halls, but a noble race in the most regal of residences.

So when she'd proclaimed _herself_ Orsimer—highly improbable, though potentially possible, considering the gossip he'd learnt about her mother's family—he'd not denied her the claim. Watching her move around the fortress—attempting to be the proud and fierce warrior she thought all Orsimer should be, injuring herself repeatedly in the process; muttering to herself as she practiced the Orcish tongue, the curses somehow her most natural words; always looking at him with the same blushing reverence—he'd never imagined she'd one day prove to be his most helpful ally of all.

It was somehow appropriate that though her hand moved silently through this matter, her signature did not appear on the parchment. He _knew_ she was somehow a part of this, just as he knew he'd never have proof of it. But what proof did he need, when it was obvious no matter how benevolent or wise the new Emperor was, it wasn't likely he'd suddenly choose to take up the cause of the pariahs of High Rock?

Yet that's exactly what he'd done, using his influence and station to finally grant the ultimate recognition to the Orsimer. No longer would they be a territory—a strange netherland of self-rule in a powerless existence—but a real kingdom, the Empire's tenth _province,_ with all the inherent rights, privileges, and protections that distinction provided.

Including protection from themselves. Against all reason, the ridiculous idea had grown, a malignant thought in the fertile mind of his kin. _ Orsinium for the Orcs_, they'd shouted, somehow thinking isolation and separation would improve their lot. _Again_, their stunning misunderstanding of the obvious astounded him.

As if that strategy—the exact strategy used repeatedly in the past, holing up in the Wrothgarians, fighting off the assaults of Bretons, Redguards, and Imperials until the Orsimer's society had been destroyed, scattering the survivors to the winds—would work this time. Did the Altmer of the Summerset Isles, a group of powerful wizards and brilliant, prejudiced minds in a province isolated safely from the rest with a sea for a moat, not belong to the Empire? Even as strong as they were, they understood only through belonging would their lives truly be secure, their fortunes assured, their kin protected.

No, it was through acceptance and cooperation the Orsimer would truly flourish. He'd seen it again and again, as some of his kin left the cloistering clan edicts behind, moving forward to pursue their own destinies— politics, business, or more physical pursuits, it mattered little. Through it all he'd always striven to hold them up as examples, offering them as proof that with a little effort—and a bit of time—all Orsimer could attain such high esteem.

The evidence walked among them, the legendary Grey Prince moving through the streets of Orsinium, still creating stories of his remarkable talents even as he worked to further the cause of his kin, albeit in secret. Some scorned his achievements, dismissing his sullied heritage, which infuriated Gortwog to no end. As if Agronak gro-Malog, the longest surviving Grand Champion to ever battle in the Arena, the bastard child who'd bravely continued to press for proper recognition in spite of potentially explosive secrets getting loose, the new Lord who was said to be so intent on aiding his villagers he'd roll up his sleeves to help them plow fields, achieved all of this because he was somehow more _Imperial_. Did the fact he looked exactly like an Orc—albeit with different coloured skin—somehow escape their notice?

Ah, but then it might have, seeing as how they never did have a head for the obvious. And it was obvious if anything, the Imperials would have been less inclined to treat Agronak fairly, seeing as how he was, in fact, a bastard half breed. Though Gortwog still found it commendable the Imperials in the Elder Council chambers unanimously agreed to recognize Agronak's nobility. Even if what he suspected was true—that somehow the unusual child who'd grown into an unusual woman, one who'd somehow come to inherit the mantle left behind by the most famous of all half Orcs—had a hand in the matter.

Of course, Gortwog never could resist working for the benefit of Orsinium, a compulsion always spurring him on to _hurry_. He'd played his best card, offered up his most explosive of dark secrets, in a deal so hidden no one but his most worthy adversary—the most unlikely ally of all—knew about it. Elysana, always too clever for her own good, never fumbled in anything—except her choice of spouse. Her fortuitous lack of judgment, combined with the happy circumstance of a tiny slip of parchment being found by the right Orc at the right time, kept Wayrest in check for years. It felt strange to give that power up, but with the measures the somewhat larger piece of parchment in front of him put in place, he knew he was getting the better end of the deal.

Knowledge, and the use of that knowledge. It always boiled down to the same basic principles. Few could survive long with a tattered reputation. Nothing could ruin a good reputation as quickly as a bad act, nor could something improve one as quickly as selfless assistance. He'd long ago taken the concept to heart.

So he'd not required any deliberations before reaching a decision when he'd received an unusual letter from an unusual woman, her warning and information about daedric gates given freely without strings, her proximity to the alleged Septim heir leading Gortwog to act on a hunch. One could never have enough allies, after all.

It was such a small investment, sending a handful of carefully chosen warriors—only those who worked well with other races—down to the Imperial province, to the mountain city of Bruma. Between his warlords and shamans, he'd had no worries about defending against daedra should a portal have opened up beside his city. But the daedra ignored the Orsimer, just as the other races had for years. .

His initial investment bore a bountiful harvest, relations with the new Emperor immediately friendly as a result of the Empress' partiality to the residents of Orsinium. Not that Lilia proclaimed it too loudly, potentially damaging her standing, as well as his own, with blatant declarations of favouritism. Instead she'd let it be known in many subtle ways none were to speak ill of the Orsimer in her presence—at least, not if they wanted to stay on her good side. Though she was said to be protective of all races of Tamriel.

For one raised in politics, one who'd managed to bring about this remarkable turn of events, he found it amusing she was so easy to manipulate. Easy being a relative term, for she still required the lightest of touch, but her reactions were all too easy to decipher. Somehow she was still an unusual child around him, seeking confirmation she was as she claimed, what she wanted to be—_Orsimer_.

Small compliments and gifts brought flattered smiles and effusive thanks, her vanity easily fed, her admiration of him and his kingdom increasing. It was a delicate process, making sure to space things apart, keep it discreet, but so far she'd always responded as he'd predicted. Actually, she'd far surpassed his hopes—he'd never expected her to somehow twist the ear of the Emperor so far in Orsinium's favour.

Gortwog leaned forward, pushing the weights off the parchment, before rolling it into a tight coil. He felt it fitting that as her hand moved unseen through this whole affair, it would be into her hands this remarkable gift—a gift to all Orsimer, be it in blood or name—would be delivered.

Along with one more gift, a fitting token he knew she'd _melt_ over. Even though the business at hand was concluded, it didn't mean he could afford to let his allies slip away. After all, he had no intentions of abandoning his kingdom when things were starting to get interesting...

* * *

Pulling the covers ever tighter, Agronak cringed inside. He could hear the repetitive slamming of the loose raiment cupboard door. It was only a matter of time before the insults began...

...and that's when they _really_ started enjoying themselves.

Funny how the door sounded different tonight, a higher, hollow noise coming not from his right side, but more from the direction of his feet—

Sitting up with a start, flinging the linens across the room while defensively swinging his arms wide, he felt the rush of surprise as he burst into wakefulness. The polite knocking paused for a moment, before it began anew.

"Who is it?" he demanded gruffly at the door, wardrobe still firmly wedged in front of it, various knick-knacks still precariously balanced on top of that. At least whoever stood on the other side hadn't tried entering by force.

Ever since he'd come to the chilling conclusion the only thing standing between him and a potentially vengeful Orc shaman was a thin wooden door with the most basic of locks, he found himself unable to relax. It took the careful re-arrangement of furniture and the crude fashioning of alarms before he felt comfortable enough to attempt sleep. Even still, rest was long coming, and fitful when it arrived, plaguing him with the most disturbing of nightmares.

So it took a few moments for his exhausted mind to understand why a young Orc named Boguk stood outside his door, offering to escort Agronak wherever he wished. By the time Agronak finished dressing and unbarricading the door, he was quite certain he understood why the guard wore such a perplexed expression.

Choosing not to address the cause of the strange sounds, or the reason for his delay, Agronak asked for conduct to breakfast someplace _far _on the other side of the city. He didn't know where her room was, or what she did during the day, but he remained determined to avoid encountering Sharm as much as possible.

Boguk proved quite knowledgeable, having grown up in the city, freely offering friendly advice and lore as they passed by statues, shops, and citizens. Though tired, Agronak enjoyed the Orc's insight and company. He'd forgotten how daunting trying to navigate through a new town was, even without contending with impenetrable fog .

When the Orc asked him where he wanted to go first, Agronak almost deferred to his judgment, before recalling he should appear bold, decisive, and in charge. So in his best bark of command, he ordered Boguk to figure it out for himself, planning a route to lead back towards the inn.

The first stop stood two doors down, a weapons store renowned for its selection of blades. The storekeeper heartily greeted Agronak, immediately apologizing for not stocking staffs, but as he ran a knife shop he didn't get much call for them. Continuing in a rambling vein, he quickly offered up a varied assortment of knives that might interest the visiting lord instead.

It was a selection unsurpassed, something Agronak had never seen, even in the Imperial City. The variety of daggers was staggering—from tiny hilted ones the storekeeper described as being ideally suited for baby's first dagger, to the so called 'Orcish' and 'Nord' styles of dagger, the length and heft of them placing them into the shortsword category. But the strange assortment of utility knives intrigued him most. Knives with holes in the blade, marketed as cheese knives (as if someone would ever need a knife dedicated solely to the cutting of cheese), the serrated edged blades designed to slice through wood, and the frightening looking cleavers made specially to hack through a cow's femur fascinating him the most.

"What's _that_ for?" Agronak inquired, pointing at an impossibly tiny dagger, the shaft no longer than his thumb, no thicker than a fingernail.

"You don't have one?" the shopkeeper asked with astonishment. "We'll have to fix that." Pulling a miniature silver blade from a drawer underneath the display case, the Orc tucked it into a wee leather sheath before handing it to Agronak with a bow. "Now you can pick your teeth with style. Be sure to tell everyone you got it at The Knave's Knivery, supplier of all your bladed oral hygiene needs."

Bemused by the gracious gesture, and perplexed at what form of madness would ever make him stick a pointed razor between his teeth, he couldn't see any way to refuse the gift. He thanked the storekeeper, then carefully extricated himself from the store, making sure not to get offered any more useless knives in the process.

As Boguk led him through the shops, Agronak quickly realized he'd have to be very careful as to what he said, and how he said it. Anytime he expressed interest in an item, it was immediately offered as a free gift. Agronak strongly suspected the combination of his nobility, his fame, and the potential advertising the stores would get with him walking around displaying their wares prompted such generous impulses. He made all inquiries with a disgruntled frown, no matter how impressed he was with the goods. The strategy worked—nobody tried gifting him something he didn't appear to like.

With no reason to rush, Agronak took his time browsing the weapon shops and blacksmiths' wares, impressed at the selection. It wasn't too surprising, considering the ore rich mines nearby, and the emphasis Orcish culture put on warrior's skills, that the quality and variety of weaponry for sale was excellent. Maybe next year he'd come back for a visit, hopefully a bit more flush with coin, to do his Saturnalia shopping. After all, everyone loved getting a good weapon as a gift...

The combination of that thought and the brilliant sparkle of green from a passing store window made him stop in his tracks. Everyone did _not_ love a good weapon—nymphs, in particular, probably wouldn't care for one. But every woman—at least, all of his former lovers—enjoyed pretty baubles as gifts...

Boguk stood quietly to the side, not questioning why Agronak was suddenly inspecting the window of a jewelry store, rather than continuing on to the blacksmith down the street. The friendly, frenetic waves of the owner and his wife beckoning him into the shop briefly caused Agronak to crack a smile, before he remembered to put on his best scowl. Last thing he needed was a jeweled pant press or some other equally valuable, equally useless item.

"Greetings, my good Lord," the smiling Breton called out when Agronak pushed open the door. "You've just entered the finest jewelry store in all of High Rock. I'm certain we can find something to suit your needs perfectly."

"It's not that fine," the shopkeeper's wife, a genial woman with an odd shawl—a tangled web of yarn, looking as if goblins had knit it—added from her seat on a stool. "Don't you be making him think your things are too expensive."

"Leyla," the man hissed at his wife, "now is not the time to _help_." With an expansive sweep of his arms, the owner hastened to reassure Agronak of the quality of his goods. "Every piece is unique, every price the lowest in town. A better value can't be found in all Orsinium."

Leyla clucked her tongue, fanning herself with her tattered copy of an old romance story. The fact it was written in Orcish, and featured a very imaginative rendering of an Orcish warlord and a Breton serving wench in a most compromising position on the cover, rather amused Agronak. "Now you're making it sound like we're a couple of fences. Don't let him think we sell stolen merchandise. What would it do to our reputation?"

"Damn it, woman, the things _you_ do to our reputation..." the shopkeeper muttered under his breath as he attempted to guide Agronak over to a display case on the other side of the room.

"Eh? What'd you say, Jansi? You know you shouldn't mumble at the clients—"

"I coughed, dearest," Jansi called back to her, before valiantly trying again to conduct business with Agronak. "What brings you in today? Jeweled buttons? Cuff links? Jacket chains?"

"He's not wearing a jacket—"

"Leyla!" The shopkeeper gave his wife an exasperated reprimand while waving his hand in front of his chest in an attempt to keep her quiet. She glared back at him with narrowed eyes, before gesturing a few colourful motions in return. A silent battle of hand flapping ensued between them, before she finally called it off with a huff, opening her book and pointedly ignoring her husband.

Shoulders slumped, the man having won the battle but lost the war, Jansi turned back to Agronak with a weary grin. "Or was it something for your lady? Malacath knows they'll only forgive you with the right offering..." he trailed off, looking mournfully at his wares, trying to pick out which item he'd be supplicating his wife with after Agronak's departure.

Not wanting to cause a renewed round of hostilities, Agronak quickly replied. "In the window, there's a green stone..."

"It won't fit him," Leyla muttered softly as she turned the page. Now it was Jansi's turn to pointedly ignore his wife as he retrieved the ring in question from its resting place.

"This is a remarkable piece. Rare that orcish of this quality is made into something other than a weapon," the shopkeeper motioned to Agronak's sword as supporting proof of his statement, "as it's tricky to work into something so fine. Tends to be brittle when warm—but don't worry, it hardens better than ebony after all is said and done. Nothing'll ever dent this ring."

"Sounds like someone's skull," Leyla whispered tartly from her perch.

Ignoring the man as he held a glaring contest with his wife, Agronak examined the little ring. It would never fit him, the thin orcish band fashioned for someone with tiny fingers. A small emerald, the same colour as the metal, winked back at him as he twisted the ring around in the sunlight. It was unique, and pretty, but best of all it was _green_. If anything would please Cerisse, this was probably his best bet.

He still wasn't sure what to make of the fact she'd not yet demanded anything. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop grated on his nerves. And after that incident with Sharm—while he knew Cerisse would understand it wasn't his fault, he was a bit worried about how she'd take it if she heard it from someone else before he could explain. If he'd learnt anything from his previous lovers, it was women tended to scream first, then listen second. Or if they were Ysabel, they never did make it past that first step.

Making sure to frown deeply, he managed to catch the attention of the shopkeeper. "How much do you charge for it?"

"What's it to you?" Leyla's demanding question surprised him.

"Woman, I swear, are you trying to drive me out of business?" Jansi asked his wife.

She pointed at Agronak. "He's not going to buy it. He hates it—look at his face."

"Oh," the Breton gasped to see Leyla spoke the truth for a change. "I'll put it back then—"

"No," Agronak exclaimed, pulling the ring out of reach. "I want to buy it. How much?" This time he didn't scowl. He got the impression he didn't have to worry about being showered with gifts in _this_ particular store...

"Don't tell him. It's a trick," Leyla declared, setting her book down on a nearby counter while fixing Agronak with a suspicious glare.

"How could it be a trick?" Jansi shot back, looking as though he was about to start tearing his hair out from frustration.

"It doesn't fit him, and it's too small for an Orcish lady's hand. What's he going to do with it then, eh?" Her eyes narrowed as she let out a small growl. "Ooh, he's probably working for that bastard Jak. This is just the sort of thing he'd do, lousy so called jeweler..."

"I assure you, I wish to buy this ring. What I plan to do with it is none of your concern," Agronak coldly replied, mildly offended she suspected him of some trickery.

"Three hundred gold," Jansi quickly answered, some note in Agronak's tone having convinced the man of his sincerity.

"Three hundred? It's worth at least five!" Leyla squawked in protest.

"It would have been, woman, if you'd not insulted our customer first!" Jansi shouted, temper finally getting the best of him. "Now will you just shut up and go back to looking pretty? I'll deal with you later."

To Agronak's horror she _twittered_ at the response, giving her husband a wink as she patted her curls, before picking her book up again.

"Have you got the coin or not? I haven't got all day," the Breton demanded, holding his palm out in expectation.

Agronak quickly paid the man, grateful to leave the shop as soon as the transaction was completed. Stepping into the street he heard the sound of the lock being turned behind him, followed by giggling. He made sure not to look back, having no desire to add any more haunting images to his burgeoning collection.

The rest of the day passed far less eventfully, Agronak sticking to weapon shops, staying far away from the jewelers of Orsinium. While he saw many wonderful things, he had no luck in finding the kind of staff he'd been sent for. There was always one thing or another that didn't fit the bill: a solid silver staff with perfect balance and no enchantments, except he'd begun to suspect Lilia didn't realize she needed at least one enchantment, or an alloy blend to fortify the soft metal—as it was he knew the staff wasn't strong enough to last one sparring match with her style of fighting; a beautiful adamantium staff, something truly appropriate for an Empress, that is, if only she was a head and a half shorter; a perfectly constructed daedric staff of the right length, much too heavy for her to wield. At least he better understood why she'd sent him and Synderius to look for one for her. A courier unfamiliar with the hideous staff she'd grown accustomed to, as well as her height and abilities, would have returned with dozens of seemingly correct, yet horribly wrong, staffs.

Burok brought Agronak back to his inn, making arrangements to escort him to the rest of the stores tomorrow—they'd visited a little over half of them today. Agronak resisted his impulse to politely thank the Orc, settling for a friendly nod and growl instead, before heading up to his room. Thankfully he caught no sight of Sharm, not even scenting a wisp of her perfume on the air. That didn't prevent him from feeling a stab of suspicion at the sudden knock at his door. Grasping his sword firmly, prepared for anything, he yanked it open.

Instead of Sharm waiting for him with flaming hands, he found Gurak in the hall, inspecting the dents in the wall. The Orc turned, caught sight of Agronak, and smiled briefly. "Sharm's still up to her old tricks then?" His amusement faded away into a soft scowl. "Come, you'll join us for dinner again. Sharm won't be there—she decided to go visit her father for a while."

Agronak joined his friend with a smile, trying not to sigh in relief. Glad as he was he wouldn't be bumping in to her again, he wondered why it was he still felt a bit..._worried_.


	31. Nuances of the Mining Industry

He knew it would be cooler underground, but he hadn't expected the way the drop in temperature matched their descent into the coiling tunnels of rock. Agronak resisted his temptation to ask a fae for heat—he could see them easily in the gloom, little shimmers of magic coiling over his limbs, or occasionally a wild one tucked away in the dark nook of a boulder. He wondered if their power would be different from the ones found in a forest or meadow, and made a mental note to ask Cerisse when she finally returned.

He expected her back this morning, but she still hadn't arrived when he left the inn late in the afternoon. Not that he'd been able to inquire after her, but he expected her to visit him as soon as she got the chance. After three nights without her companionship to flavour them, he was beginning to feel rather..._ravenous_.

And frustrated. While Orsinium was a fascinating town, the stores filled with exotic products, the dinner companionship enjoyable, and his inn of the highest calibre, so far he had yet to find _one _damn staff to satisfy Lilia's requirements. Though he'd met a few smiths who could probably make her one—hopefully their names would mollify her when he returned to Cyrodiil empty handed. Sometimes she had a bit of a short temper about the strangest things.

"The vein of orcish runs the deepest." Khazor pointed with his torch, indicating yet another branching tunnel winding further down. "This is one of the oldest parts of the mine."

He'd waited somewhat impatiently for his visit to the fortress, but the wait was worth it. Gortwog prepared a grand evening to officially welcome Agronak to Orsinium: fine food, lively entertainment, and a glittering assortment of guests. For a brief moment when he arrived he couldn't help recalling the Queen's dinner in Wayrest, wondering if he'd have to endure tart questions and barbed comments, but those worries dissolved in the warmth of a gracious night.

It wasn't until the guests began to drift away, heading out under the canopy of stars, that Khazor approached Agronak and stated _Of course, I'd be honoured to show you the mines_. Not that Agronak could ever remember expressing such a desire in his entire life, let alone in the past couple of days, but he immediately took his friend up on his offer, certain something more lay behind it.

So far Khazor hadn't said anything beyond occasionally pointing out something interesting about the mines under the fortress. Hopefully Agronak would also get an escort back out—they were expansive beyond his imagination, the tunnels curving, twisting, and looping back into themselves deep into the mountainside. Khazor's mention of a waypoint much further in, where miners could stop to sleep, eat, and refresh themselves before continuing their trek to the digging, convinced Agronak that one could easily get so lost in here they'd die of starvation long before they found daylight again.

The ancient mine shaft narrowed until it wasn't much wider than the Orcs passing through it. Fire from Khazor's torch danced off the rough walls, bits of mica winking back a ruby light, making the passage look like it was carved from sparkling jewels rather than so much unyielding dark stone.

"Almost there," Khazor stated, leading Agronak around a sharp curve to the right. The tunnel turned again and again to the right in quick succession, until Agronak was convinced they'd just walked in a small circle.

"Weren't we here already?" Agronak asked, concerned his friend might have gotten lost. This was no place for the unfamiliar wander about.

"If we'd been here before, wouldn't you have noticed this?" Khazor replied, giving Agronak a friendly punch in the arm—hard.

Agronak shook his head wordlessly in reply, wondering how a simple wooden door—not the kind built with flimsy planks to separate sections of mine, but a real, proper door, complete with brass hinges and door knob—came to be set into solid granite so far underground.

"Go on in. Don't want to keep him waiting." Khazor pointed with the torch, casting strange shadows on the tunnel roof as the flames flickered in response. With a nod Agronak stepped forward, before turning to his friend, about to ask how he was to get back up. Khazor anticipated the question, preemptively answering with a broad grin. "I'll take you out when you're done."

Agronak clapped the Orc on the shoulder—hard—before he opened the door and stepped inside. The room was small, simple, and surprisingly warm. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same mica flecked dark rock, carefully cut and polished into straight, smooth planes.

"Lord Lovidicus. I hope you didn't mind the tour—in light of the circumstances, it's best we not be seen meeting alone." His host for the evening welcomed Agronak graciously, Gortwog's steel grey topknot waving as he offered a polite nod. "Have you enjoyed your stay in Orsinium?"

"It has been most interesting," Agronak answered. He'd met the Orc once before, but he'd felt so tense, as though about to step into battle when he entered the Elder Council Chambers with the written proof of his claim as Lord Lovidicus' son and heir, he hadn't recalled all that much of the aging King Gortwog, Chief Warlord of Orsinium.

He hadn't remembered the Orc having quite so many wrinkles, the light of the torches in their brackets highlighting deep lines in the King's face. Nor did he recollect the Orc's imposing physical presence. His flesh may be growing older, but his broad shoulders, straight posture, and inherent power were those of one decades younger. He had no doubt Gortwog could be lethal if the occasion demanded—or if he simply chose to be.

"I've heard you explored it thoroughly," Gortwog replied, the merest hint of amusement in his voice. "Though I understand you've had some trouble in finding a certain...gift. It's for a friend of yours in the Imperial City, isn't it?"

Agronak hesitated a moment, under the impression both he and Gortwog knew perfectly well the friend in question may reside in the city, but she didn't live in the Arena. Ysabel made a good cover story for those who'd never encountered her—the last thing she'd want would be a staff for smacking the pit dogs around. Everyone who met her knew she considered the use of her fists a hobby. Where others took up knitting or learnt to swim, she enjoyed practicing diverse and myriad ways of beating people senseless with her bare hands.

And to Agronak's eternal horror, Owyn _really_ enjoyed helping her practice.

"A mutual friend of ours," Gortwog continued, confirming Agronak's suspicions, "one who may even be a mutual _kin_ of ours...?"

"That's...not very likely," Agronak replied slowly, careful how he phrased it. While he believed the part about her Dunmeri heritage—he'd seen her guardian—he never quite accepted Lilia's claim of Orcish ancestry. She might be built like one, in fact, she was built somewhat bigger than one, but he could see no evidence in her otherwise.

The Orc studied Agronak for a long moment, giving the impression he wasn't surprised by the answer, but wasn't entirely pleased with it either. Then his demeanor changed, a hint of bemusement playing about his lips. "Tell me, Agronak, what makes one Orsimer? What percentage of your blood must be _pure_ in order to qualify? You are only half, at best—do you not consider yourself Orsimer? There are those who would say you are not."

"I am an Orc," Agronak replied, drawing himself up to his full height, standing proud. "Just as I am an Imperial."

"Well said," Gortwog approved with a nod. "So it's not that you are neither, but that you are both. I would hope for nothing less." The Orc crossed his thick arms over his chest, legs planted firmly on the ground. It was an impressive stance, one of a warrior in repose. "When I started my journey, I never thought an Orsimer could be anything but one born into a clan. As I have come to find, occasionally to my regret, is it doesn't matter how green your skin, or powerful your axe, but where your true loyalties of kinship lie."

A muffled thump resounded though the room as Gortwog knocked his fists into his chest. "It's the heart that makes a true Orsimer. You _feel_ you are Orsimer—you would work towards improving their lot, you would defend their name, you would back their cause. Because you are Orsimer here," another thump emphasized the words, "you _are_ Orsimer."

"Thank you," Agronak murmured, not entirely sure what else to say. He'd never particularly questioned it before—his mother was an Orc, and that made him an Orc. Just as his father had been an Imperial, and that made him an Imperial. He'd never thought otherwise, except for the brief moment in which he'd imagined himself as some kind of vampire monster. Thankfully the notion was short lived .

"So then, why should it matter if Orsimer flows through her veins, when it lives in her heart?" Gortwog's question lingered in the air between them for a moment, a logical conclusion wrought from Agronak's own words. "As there is no proof either way, I can see no reason to dismiss the claim." The Orc turned around, snapping open a long box set on the table behind him.

Agronak caught the brilliant gleam of emerald and silver in the torchlight as Gortwog lifted the finely crafted staff out of its case. He held it flat across his palms, as if balancing a tray full of expensive pottery, allowing Agronak to get a good look at it. Thin ribbons of silver twined along the length, creating a delicate webbing that ended in the delicately detailed silver cap on each end. The main body was of orcish—high quality orcish, the metal a vibrant green. The length looked right, the thickness the proper size for her grip, and he could easily see how well balanced it was as it rested in the Warlord's strong hands. A perfect weapon for Lilia...except it had to be too heavy, orcish one of the densest metals to be found.

"In our separate difficulties, I believe we can be of mutual assistance to each other. I wish this delivered to a friend, and you wished to obtain one of these for that same friend." Gortwog's tone changed, from one of polite conversation to the imperious note of royal command. "Take this to her, with my message. Tell her it is a gift from her kin, a token given in hopes she'll find in it the fulfillment of her dreams, for the Orsimer dream the greatest of dreams."

As Gortwog passed him the staff, Agronak debated whether or not to warn the Orc it wouldn't be something she could use. His apprehension turned quickly into disbelief when he felt the light weight of it in his hands, no heavier than the hideously garish silver staff she'd used during her days in the Arena. When he finally tore his eyes from the remarkable weapon and looked back at Gortwog, he found the Orc wearing a satisfied smile.

After a few more brief words and some polite farewells, Agronak prepared to take his leave of the King of Orsinium. Before he could open the door, Gortwog stopped him. "Agronak, I do hope you will return again one day. Let this not be a final goodbye, but merely farewell for a short time." The Orc hesitated for a moment, before adding one more instruction. "Though I would suggest if you have anything you wish to say to Gurak, you do so before you leave Orsinium." With a curt nod, Gortwog dismissed him. "That is all."

Agronak gave a polite bow in reply, before hastily exiting the room. Khazor didn't ask any questions of what transpired, nor did he remark on Agronak's new weapon. Which was good, because Agronak felt so distracted by the strange thoughts whirling in his mind he wouldn't have answered the inquiry with any coherence.

As it was, he almost missed it when he cast one glance back down the long tunnel, looking to catch a final glimpse of the door—except it wasn't there to see, only the distant glitter of mica set in unyielding dark rock to be found.

* * *

Snowflakes fell around him, drifting down like bursts of spring petals, gently persuaded by the lies of the wind to give up their home for the seductive lure of adventure. The white spheres of crystalline ice floated down as so many dripping stars, covering him in their chill embrace. While he began the slow process of freezing, the ground around him grew so hot it sizzled, the snow melting here and there, gasping out a tiny _irc! _before vanishing.

Irc?

Waking with a shock, Agronak glanced around wildly, searching for the source of the sound. He quickly located it—standing on the far side of the bed, stolen blankets in her hand, wide eyes in heavily shadowed sockets, amusement tucked away in her smile.

"What's happening? Is something wrong?" The questions tumbled out as his mind tried to catch up. Giving her a curious glance, he asked the more important question. "Did you just call me _Irc_?"

"That's what your friend said you'd respond to," Cerisse whispered, tossing the covers back to him. "You sleep so soundly, and I know you don't take well to surprises. I couldn't figure out how else to wake you without throwing things. I was sure if I tried shaking you I'd be the one getting thrown across the room."

Tugging the bedding back into place, he motioned for her to come closer. She gladly obeyed, crawling onto the mattress with weary movements. "You look exhausted. Did everything work out as you'd planned?" he inquired, noting her new cloak and old shoes. "What are you doing wearing shoes on the furniture? Get those off."

"I missed you," she murmured, pausing for a kiss before complying with his request. She fumbled so much with the laces he finally decided to help her, concerned by her exhaustion. "It didn't go as well as I'd hoped, but it's done. That's all that matters, right?"

"Of course," he muttered absently, tossing a shoe towards its mate, already on the floor. "How have you been sleeping?"

"You assume I've been sleeping," she dryly replied. Her eyes closed as he worked to unfasten her cloak. As he slipped it off her shoulders she melted against him, her arms cradling his blanket covered form. "I've not had much opportunity. It was hard to get to the meeting place, and seemed so far as I returned."

"Well, you've made it, so it's time you got some rest. Perfect timing too. Everything here's taken care of." Seeing she wasn't about to make the effort, he tossed the cloak off to the side, letting it fall to the ground, before considering her positioning in relation to the covers. With a grin he put his arms carefully around her, kissed her, then tugged her to the side, rolling her over top of him. A quick yank of the bedding and a reverse of the roll later she was snuggled up against him, still wearing her linen travelling gown, safely tucked underneath the blankets. "Try not to steal all the covers tonight."

"Now," she answered in a low voice, "whatever gave you the idea I share?"

He moved wayward strands of hair over her shoulder with a smile. As he rearranged the pillows and carefully draped an arm around her, he felt a small bit of the worry he'd carried around fade away, melting into the velvet shadows of the night.

* * *

Studying the walls, he finally decided they were more wine than russet, which was not what he'd envisioned. Theodyrick sighed heavily, not wanting to hire another round of painters, certain Ysausa wouldn't let up with the same little jabs he always gave her, turning the tart comments about the constant redecoration of their townhome in Wayrest around to bite him instead.

He could always paint the room himself, breaking his usual rule about not getting his hands dirty—it's not as if he had much else to do nowadays. Karethys, as intoxicating as always, was infuriatingly occupied with her new houseguest. While he felt sure the young man she'd introduced as a _colleague_ wasn't any threat to him, he hadn't enjoyed the interruption in his visits. It hadn't helped the man's eyes were a disturbingly pale blue, almost as if the colour had leached out of them. Every time he looked at those eyes Theodyrick couldn't help comparing them to the sightless eyes of the floating corpses that occasionally drifted up to the docks of Wayrest.

Aside from Edwyn's occasional petulant notes, the intelligence he received on the grey Orc and his dull companion only served to reinforce his conviction there wasn't anything to find. The secret communications had degenerated into rumours about the Orc's love life—always a sure sign there wasn't anything worth reporting, and it wasn't a topic he'd ever wanted to know about. Especially the rumours about him and his escort—the mere thought made him shudder.

He was confident if there was something to find, he'd have found it by now. Edwistyr might have one unusually knowledgeable source, but nobody's network could compare to Theodyrick's. He'd spent years—sometimes it felt like his entire life—developing a most diverse group of informants. Besides the standard coterie of maids and grooms, he'd branched out into untapped and previously unheard of avenues. A sewer cleaner in Daggerfall, a seemingly crazy beggar woman in Sentinel, Elysana's secretary's lover, and his most unusual source of all—a Warlord of Orsinium.

It was the only thing Edwyn had given him in exchange for his years of toil, and the man had no idea he'd done it. His cousin might be clever, but he had terrible luck when it came to keeping things secret. It was common knowledge who worked for him, the nobles taking every opportunity to send the things they wanted the Royal Consort to hear up his network of informants. The situation was downright embarrassing. So when Edwyn had summoned Theodyrick, asking him to follow up on a very faint lead of a new source in Orsinium, he'd not thought twice about keeping the lead for himself. Feeding his cousin a few simple lies—namely that nothing serious had come of his inquiries—left Theodyrick to begin the laborious process of courting an Orc.

It hadn't been an easy task, hindered by mutual dislike of each other, but eventually they'd come to an understanding, aided greatly by Theodyrick's constant lies that Edwyn would support any and all actions the Orc undertook. As far as he could determine the Warlord was looking to secure the support of Wayrest in preparation for a move on the throne of Orsinium. A bold move if he made it, and most likely a suicidal one. But at least he could provide some helpful information before he died, and if he did manage to succeed...well, there was no harm in having an Orc friendly to Wayrest on Gortwog's throne. Theodyrick was certain if such a thing were to happen, he'd be able to play his cards right, translating it into a return of his ancestral land.

Settling down onto the new settee, the velvet fabric somehow stiff and rigid, not as soft and embracing as Lady Yeoming's, he let out a long sigh before pouring himself a small measure of brandy. He couldn't help feeling frustrated at this turn in his luck. Every time he felt close to a chance to set things right, the prize at the end turned out to be a pile of dirt rather than a chest full of gold. Theodyrick felt sure he'd have gotten his land back – _if_ he had only gotten his hands on the secret missive Elysana received. Whether by blackmailing Gortwog, Elysana, Edwyn, the Emperor, or all of them at the same time, he'd have made certain his birthright was returned to him. For a start—after all, it depended on what the parchment contained...

If there had been a parchment to begin with, but he was now convinced it had never existed in anything but Edwyn's deluded mind. Pity his inability to kill off the grey Orc in supplication to Edwyn, but after the fiasco with Karethys' husband (pet?) he'd not dared to try again. Maybe he should have listened to Edwistyr, and returned to Wayrest ages ago. It probably would've been more productive, and much less frustrating. Nothing ever seemed to go quite right in this backwater province.

"Did you miss me?" the young man slurred, bursting into the room in a cloud of alcohol, raising a racket as he knocked a vase off a nearby table with his stumbling movements.

"What? How did you get in?" Theodyrick asked, scrambling to his feet. He'd never expected to see Edwistyr in his manor again, not after the manor in which he'd left it last.

"Good ol' Paulsh...Pushl...the ugly ol' fellow," Edwistyr answered, managing to clear his vision long enough to notice the decanter of brandy on the table. He cackled with glee before lurching towards it, looking like a sailor walking the deck in a storm, except without the deck or the storm. "What, you hear about it already? Nice gesture, but I can't be bought off with cheap booze."

"You've had enough already," Theodyrick stated, grabbing the bottle and tugging it out of reach. He knew Edwistyr was no stranger to alcohol, but he'd never seen the man in such a terrible state. He looked—and smelt—as if he'd started drinking yesterday and hadn't stopped since.

"Enough?" The word was repeated with a demented laugh as Edwistyr stumbled into Theodyrick's side. "It would've been enough. More than enough. Enough for twenty of me...but there's only one of me, see? That's why it would've been _perfect_!"

Nudging his cousin over towards the settee, trying not to breathe more than necessary, Theodyrick attempted to get the man settled. Whatever he was going on about could wait. He was in no state to make any sense, and might not be for at least another day if the scent was any indication...

"Would've...would've been perfect," Edwistyr muttered quietly as he leaned against the furniture. Suddenly he sat straight up, causing Theodyrick to back away in surprise. "But she said _no_! How? How could she?"

"Edwistyr," Theodyrick responded gruffly, pointing at the settee rather than touch his cousin, "why don't you shut up, and get some sleep? It'll be better in the morning."

"_No_," Edwistyr moaned out the word, whether in protest at Theodyrick's command or in pained recollection he couldn't tell. The younger man flopped dramatically onto the cushions, tossing one forearm up to cover his eyes. "How _no_? She couldn't..._can't_ do better than me. A last resort can't have a last resort..."

Theodyrick froze, limbs turning to ice as his blood seized in nervous apprehension. Shadow shapes of missing puzzle pieces drifted around the edges of his mind, leaving dark rustling questions in their wake. "Who? Edwistyr, tell me who she is."

"No matter now," his cousin waved away the question with lazy fingers, "no point. She was..._is_...nobody. And she'll stay one now, won't she? Nobody woman from nowhere." Edwistyr let out a bitter giggle at the thought.

So a potential wife _did_ exist...and she'd said no. Theodyrick tried to calm his fears, allay them with some actual facts from his drunken cousin. Surely the man was so intoxicated he'd repeated that phrase about last resorts for no particular reason...

"Of course she's nobody," Theodyrick murmured, attempting to convey some sort of sympathy to Edwistyr, even though all he wanted to do was beat the information out of the man. "That nothing little nobody...what did you say her name was again?"

"Oh, no you don't. Think you can pick up my traitorous spy? She said _no_ to that too."

Edwistyr's scathing answer sent a shock through Theodyrick's body, as if lightning suddenly fell from the sky and struck him. His cousin could _not_ have been _that _stupid. "Damn it, Eddy! Who is she?" he thundered, yanking the forearm off puffy lids.

"You..." Edwistyr's bloodshot eyes narrowed to a feral glare. Lurching off the settee he attempted to shove Theodyrick, instead smacking heavily into the wall when he missed completely. "If you hadn't dragged me into this _farce_...if you hadn't set this _pig_ in her path..." he trailed off, thoughts struggling through a drunken haze. With a confused frown, he stared at Theodyrick. "It's _your_ fault she wants nothing more to do with me. _Your_ fault I lost a source, a wife...such a rich, rich, _rich_ wife."

"No," Theodyrick whispered, refusing to believe it, "no, you wouldn't—you _didn't_. Your source, the one who warned us about the courier, the one who's told you what the pig's been up to—tell me she's not the same woman. Tell me you aren't that _stupid_."

"I'm not stupid!" The shouted protest rang through the room. Edwistyr groaned at his own noise, head lolling against the wall, before he finally turned back to Theodyrick. "I'm _poor_. What else was there to do but pay court to a _Hawkton_? It would've been perfect..."

Numb with horror, Theodyrick barely managed to stammer out the name. "Cerisse?"

"The perfect, rich, foolish little _nobody_." In a pitiful lurch, Edwistyr pressed away from the wall, shambling back towards the settee. "So many years spent—"

The bottle of brandy accomplished what the alcohol hadn't, the heavy blow to the drunken man's head knocking him out. Theodyrick glared down in cold fury at the sprawled figure of his idiot cousin, mildly disappointed the man's thick skull had prevented the hit from killing him.

He'd stay to finish the job, but already there wasn't a moment to spare. Letting the broken stem of the decanter fall from his hand, he strode towards the door, shouting for his valet to ready the horses. Even though _convinced_ he was hunting the wrong quarry, he'd still set up contingency plans, just in case.

Now, to spring the trap, and catch his most slippery prize yet. She may have eluded scrutiny for years, gliding between the two courts with so many valid excuses, but now he knew who she was...there would be no escape for her this time. And he'd make sure to capture her decoy as well. Maybe Edwistyr had been right about one thing—this would be _perfect_.

First he needed to confirm some details...where had he put Gurak's latest report?


	32. Wilderness Travel Tips For Small Groups

"You're sure it's open?" Agronak asked, peering over to check behind the counter. He found no terrified Breton cowering in fear at the spectacle of an Orcperial in his inn—only an empty chair.

"The door's unlocked," Cerisse answered as she strode towards the hallway. "Hello?" Her loud call rang out in the still air. "Is anyone here?"

A dull murmur of voices, far too faint to make out the words, reached Agronak's ears. He motioned for Cerisse to join him at the counter, to wait for the owner of the hasty footsteps to appear.

She finally did, bustling around the corner with a distracted air and a tense frown. "Terribly sorry. I weren't expecting anyone." Her eyes, set so wide apart they gave her a perpetually stunned look, darted between her customers. "What d'ya need?"

Cerisse handled the arrangements, renting two rooms, before discussing the availability of a late meal. They'd left Orsinium early, needing to cover a large distance to get here—the Unfortunate Dagger Lodge—the only place to find a bed with a roof over it for hours in either direction. The road they chose was the quickest to get back to Wayrest, but it wasn't often used, narrowing to little more than a footpath in places. Without accessibility for wagons no towns had sprung up along it, only a couple of entrepreneurs attempted to make a living by offering a warm meal and soft bed to the hardy souls who chose to take the rarely traversed route.

"Ain't no one else here," the Breton hastily explained, stealing glances at Agronak, "'cept my husband. Broke both his hands this morning. I done sent the boy to get a priest, so I ain't done much for dinner. There's soup, if you want."

"Is your husband in pain? I might be able to help," Cerisse offered, trying to console the frazzled woman.

Bristling with the iron determination of the independent, the innkeeper's wife deflected all offers of help. "I can tend my own, miss. He don't hurt much, but he can't do what needs doing. I can't leave him long."

"Well, if there's anything we can do..." Cerisse let the invitation trail away, to hang in the air in case the strong-willed Breton changed her mind at a later time. "Soup sounds lovely, thank you."

"Sit anywhere—it's just you two." The woman put two keys on the counter, then with one final glance at her guests, disappeared back down the hallway. She vaguely reminded Agronak of an obstinate minotaur as she turned the corner – head down as if set to ram, shoulders squared, arms pumping. However the tending of her own could be described, he somehow doubted _gentle_ would apply.

They moved into the empty dining room, deciding to eat right away, allowing the Breton to return to her husband's care as soon as possible. While Cerisse prepared a table, finding utensils in a sideboard, Agronak refreshed the dwindling fire under the rough pine mantle. He felt vaguely at odds, the sensation plaguing him all day growing worse in this empty inn, the line between customer and employee blurring as they performed these small tasks, as if playing some strange children's game of pretend.

Except this was the grown up world, evidenced by the hasty entrance of the innkeeper's wife, bearing a full tray. She set down two bowls of soup and two mugs of mead. "Ain't much, but I 'spect it'll do."

"Might I get something other than mead?" Cerisse asked, moving to rise out of her chair. "I'll take care of it—you can tell me where the wine is..."

The woman shook her kerchiefed head, her movements efficient and brisk. "Don't stock it. Not enough demand."

"Ale?"

Cerisse's hopeful question met the same terse dismissal. "Keg's tapped out, and I ain't hauling up a new one right now."

"Water?"

The Breton frowned, whether at Cerisse's persistence or choice of beverage Agronak couldn't tell. "Well ain't working. That's how come my husband done broke his hands, trying to fix the damn thing. Ain't nothing but the stuff in the rooms, and it ain't no good for drinking after 'bout an hour. Goes scuzzy."

"Mead's fine." Cerisse smiled weakly, picking her napkin back up.

"Leave the dishes when you're done. The boy'll take care of 'em when he gets back. Good night." With that curt pleasantry, the woman left them alone in the dining room to enjoy their simple meal.

"Save it—I don't think there'll be more unless we raid the kitchen," Agronak instructed as he placed his palm over Cerisse's mug, preventing her from drinking the mead. "You might need it to wash down the soup."

The smell proved an accurate indication of the flavour, the soup—while not bad—didn't meet Agronak's definition of 'good'. It was edible, but not enjoyable. He didn't fault the Breton much for it though, since there were other things worrying her today.

"It's a change from what you've been eating, isn't it?" Cerisse grimaced mildly at the soup, before attempting another spoonful. "How did that go, by the way? Your dinner with Gurak?"

"It went well," Agronak answered, deciding to ease Cerisse into his misadventures during her absence. Their journey had, so far, provided no opportunity to speak much, both far too aware of the important document they carried. Tomorrow in Kirkwood, they would pass it off to a Blade, but until then Agronak couldn't help jumping at bird calls and glancing suspiciously at deer. Chatting during the ride felt like an invitation for an ambush. "The food was excellent."

"And the fight?" Her spoon sank into her soup, resting at the bottom of the bowl as she girded herself for another assault at the meal. "I overheard there was quite a match scheduled."

"Right!" His exclamation perplexed her, her expression turning to confusion when he placed his coin purse on the table. "It wasn't what I expected, but it proved profitable. Take it."

"Agronak," she whispered, leaning forward as if worried about the wind overhearing her, since there certainly wasn't anyone else listening, "I'm supposed to be paying you, not the other way around. You're escorting me, remember?"

"What? No," he laughed at her bewilderment, "this is for my sword. And shield. It's a bit short, but I'll send you the rest when I get my first payment from Choctam. I didn't want to be out of balance when I took them back to Crowhaven."

Cerisse shook her head, amused at his statement. She bent forward even more—any further and she'd find herself wearing her soup. "I told you, I'm not the one who bought them. Your _friend_'s friends did. They're covering all the costs—think of it as your wages. The sword is yours." As she sank back down into her seat she cocked her head at him. "Did you bet on every match? That's a lot of winnings."

He chuckled as he strapped the leather pouch back to his belt. "Nah, only one fight with big odds. I don't bet often—wasn't allowed most of the time."

"Fighters of the Arena can't bet on the matches?" She took the opportunity to delay another spoonful of soup by asking. "I suppose that makes sense..."

"We're not allowed to bet on our own matches," he explained, "but we're allowed to bet on others. Normally. When Syn..my _friend_," he quickly covered, noticing how she looked up at him with worried eyes as he began to say the name—so long as nobody knew about him, the mer's cover story remained viable. "When my friend joined the Arena, he figured out a way I could make some gold off my own matches. He'd place the bet for me alongside his own, then give me the winnings. I did the same for him, well, at least after I saw he wasn't letting his fool self get killed too easily."

"They figured it out?"

"No, they've no idea what we were doing. But we always won, so eventually Hundolin refused to take any more bets. After that he only let us bet on pit dog matches, and only on the team with a fighter guaranteed to lose. Needless to say we couldn't gamble too often after that. But when we did, we made it worth our while." The little Bosmer always got a sour look on his face whenever Agronak or Synderius approached. Though he always smiled at Lilia, her erratic performances in the Arena brought the mer a lot of gold from the gamblers as they continued to bet against her, certain she'd get herself killed.

"I never was one for gambling. I'm familiar enough with risks to not seek any more." Cerisse toyed with her soup, lifting up a spoonful before letting it pour back down in a thin stream to the half-empty bowl. An errant spatter landed on her nose, startling her into a blush as she quickly wiped it away with her napkin. "Did Gurak ever say say anything...?"

"No," he assured her, understanding she referred to her unfortunate bounce off the Warlord's chest. "We didn't talk much, but he's not one for a lot of conversation. I met a couple of old friends there," he paused for a moment, before plunging in, hoping the innkeeper and his wife were on the other side of the inn, worried Cerisse's angry voice might carry before he could calm her, "and some new people. Even a shaman."

"Did he teach you anything?" she asked brightly. "You'd do well with their magics. It's much more aggressive than coven spells. Witches aren't much for fireballs, but then they could raise a forest fire if they wanted. Or call up a drought. Or curse an entire village." She looked over to the fireplace, watching sparks shoot off the fresh logs, furrow on her brow, a small frown tugging down the corners of her lips. "It's a good thing they're held accountable with the concept of balance, because they can do things that are truly..._terrible_." Her word wasn't more than a whisper, as if scared to even mention the dark potential of witches' powers.

"She did show me something..." Carefully, monitoring her constantly lest she begin throwing things or start bawling, Agronak attempted to explain what happened with Sharm. Cerisse listened, eyes narrowing until they were nothing but slits, like those of a furious cat. The flaring of her nostrils and clenched jaw worried him—he'd never seen her truly angry before.

"_Nchow_!" she spat out the Dunmeri curse, her body vibrating with fury. "I ought to...I can't believe...that _bitch_!"

Her wrath—directed not at him, but at _Sharm_—confounded Agronak. This was new. His previous lovers had always blamed him for everything, even if he'd done nothing more than sit oblivious on a barstool, unaware another woman gave him admiring glances. Somehow even that counted as 'his fault', no matter how he tried to explain - particularly to Ilona - he couldn't control whether or not women looked at him.

"To manipulate you like that...I bet she used your own power for that spell!" Cerisse continued, frustration on her face as she glanced about, as if searching for something to vent it on, some way to transmit it to Sharm in her absence. "Ooh, I could have the coven do so many things to her for that." Suddenly she looked back to Agronak, hope in her eyes. "Did you toss her out the window by her _tobr'a_ ass? Show her what it's like to fly?"

"Slow down there, killer," he soothed with a chuckle, grabbing her clenched fists from the table, trying to get her fingers to unfurl. "The only thing I threw were her shoes. But I did scare her enough she fled the city." He wasn't about to mention how dangerous his anger was – or how close Sharm came to finding out. .

"Is that what those dents in the hall were from?" Her hands relaxed as she smiled, allowing him to lace his fingers between hers. "I'm glad the amulet helped. It's lucky Belladyvyra gave it to you."

"You mean she didn't foresee the need for it?" he joked. To his surprise Cerisse contemplated the question.

"She probably had the sense you'd need it, but I don't think she's done any divination about you. It's something witches rarely do. Those who dare ask for their fortunes have often spent years in service to the coven, and even then it's not often the witches agree." She nodded down to the remnants of soup in her bowl. "You can have the rest if you'd like. I'm done."

"No, thank you," he hurriedly replied. Emptying the contents of his own bowl proved challenging enough. Releasing her hands, he picked up his mug, draining half the mead in a few gulps, glad he'd saved it until the end. It managed to remove most of the lingering flavour of soup from his mouth.

"It's so sweet," Cerisse stated as she sipped the brew. "I've never cared much for mead. But it does help."

He smiled as he looked at her, sitting there with her little fingers curled around the mug, occasionally making a face as she drank her mead. It might not have been a necessary purchase, her expected anger not manifesting as he imagined, but he didn't regret buying the little trinket safely tucked away in one of the secret pockets of his cloak. He tugged it out, the ring hidden inside a green linen pouch—he'd purchased it separately at an alchemist's shop, realizing the jeweler rushed him out of the store so quickly he'd forgotten to give Agronak a bag. "I found something for you while you were gone. Here."

She put the mug down, taking the pouch with a smile. "Is it a stone? That's so thoughtful..." Her words froze along with her smile when she peeked inside, the rock taking a far different form than she pictured. Keeping her strained grin in place, she pulled the ring out to look at it, holding it right beside the opening of the bag, as if she anticipated a need to stuff it back inside at any second. "What's this?"

"It's a gift," he explained, surprised at her unexpected reaction. Normally women melted at this sort of gesture. "Do you not like it?"

"Why?" she asked, her breathing so shallow her gown barely stirred. "Why are you giving me this?"

She needed an explanation? Agronak leaned forward, offering her a warm smile in hopes she'd relax, completely confused by her questions. "Well, it's pretty, and you're pretty...and it's _green_. I thought you liked green."

"Oh," she muttered, tucking the ring back into the pouch. As she slipped it into a pocket she smiled thinly at him. "It's very pretty, thank you." Grabbing her mug she quickly took a sip, the mead preventing her from having to say anything else.

"You're welcome." Hmm, so she hadn't liked it after all. Maybe she only liked silver jewelry. Pity, he'd convinced himself she'd love it. He drained the rest of his mead, thinking of ways to smooth this over. Women hated it when he chose wrong. This was probably one of those barbs she'd throw back at him later on—Ilona had never stopped with her complaints when his birthday gift one year, of an expensive red cloak to match his favourite dress, had a Nibenay-style hem rather than a Colovian one. Damned if he knew what the difference was, but she always brought it up when she wanted to guilt him into something. No matter how many time he _made it up to her_, she never let the matter drop.

"Cerisse, I've been thinking," he started, a little bemused by the sweat springing up over his body. Was he nervous about this? His little nymph certainly had an unusual effect on him, but he didn't think he had any reason to worry about asking the question. Rallying, he boldly carried on. "Now you've got a vacation coming up, why don't you spend it in Cyrodiil? I can show you Crowhaven, the Imperial City, the Arena...it'll be fun. What do you think?"

Whatever her initial thoughts, she didn't share them, instead drinking the rest of her mead in a prolonged silence. Finally she set the empty mug down on the table with a heavy sigh. "Vacation?" Her voice held a biting sound to it, a note of tension sharpening the edges of her words. "What makes you think I'm going on vacation?"

"That's what you chose, isn't it?" Now this _was_ odd. His forehead beaded with moisture, sweat dripping into his eyebrows. He didn't feel unnerved by Cerisse's attitude, but for some reason his body behaved as if he was under the scrutiny of Elysana, Belladyvyra, and the Matriarch of Dibella combined. A soft flutter sprang up in his stomach, and his heart beat out a quick patter. "That decision you had to make between duty and pleasure. That's why you went to your meeting, right? To decline a mission?"

She moaned, propping her elbows on the table as she dropped her head into her hands. "Duty and _personal_," she snapped. "You thought it was a vacation...I should've known. Well, I will have a lot of free time on my hands soon." A dark sound, like a choking laugh, escaped her. "So much time to do some...something..." Her arms fell away as she slumped to the table, gasping for breath, worried face covered in moisture. "Something's wrong..."

Her dire pronouncement came true as she tipped out of her chair, the angle of her body pulling the table to the side with a crash as she fell limply to the floor. Agronak lurched out of his seat, yelling for help, fighting with his spongy limbs as he tried to get beside her. The healing spell he fumbled out didn't do anything, meaning she'd either come down with a disease, or she'd somehow been...


	33. How to Arrange Important Social Calls

_He stinks almost as bad as she does..._

_...sure he can't pull it out?_

_...won't be long now before he..._

* * *

Agronak didn't burst into consciousness so much as slide into it, senses slowly awakening as the drugs wore off.

First came his hearing, confused and awkward—footsteps, whispers, clanking locks, and vermin scuttling overhead.

Sensation followed next—sore joints, aching head, thick metal, bare flesh. Shackles bound his limbs, chains holding his legs apart, arms stretched to the side overhead. He could get no easy leverage in this position.

Finally he could see, though his vision did little to answer the thousands of questions tearing through his mind—metal door with a viewing area cut out at head height, barred against escape; weather rotten boards beneath his feet, musty with years of neglect; stone walls, crumbling in the corners, of ancient construction.

Wherever he was, it didn't look as though anyone lived in, or even _visited_ here. An empty window, glass either long removed or never installed, offered a view of mountains and moonlight. So he was still somewhere near the Wrothgarians. That bit of knowledge...didn't really help.

His growing frustration halted when a face, half lit with torchlight, peered through the door. "He's up." The speaker disappeared as the thick bolt was drawn back. With a piercing squeal of rusted hinges it swung open, allowing two Bretons to enter the room.

"Lord Lovidicus," the dapperly dressed Breton spoke, his voice a combination of oiled charm and scathing indifference. Agronak recognized the dimpled chin, lidded eyes, and carefully brushed back grey hair, but couldn't place the face. "I hope you're enjoying my hospitality. It's so rare I get to entertain here. There's nothing comparable to the rustic charm of one's ancestral home, is there?"

Agronak didn't offer a reply, other than to glare at the pair of them. The other Breton, dressed in worn platemail, stepped forward, landing an agonizing blow to his side. "Answer him, _pig_." Agronak exhaled through gritted teeth as pain flared in his body.

"Bentyn." The elegant man stuck out his gloved hand, preventing his guard from following up with another punch. "Do not do that again. I'm sure you've observed our guest is an Orc. Hurt him too badly, and he won't be able to do much more than grunt." A slanted smile appeared on the man's fleshy lips. "Lady Yeoming contends he can speak—at least, a few words."

Anger in its most seductive form crept around him, begging Agronak to join in an orgy of fury. He struggled to keep it at bay, trying desperately to connect the pieces in his mind, to figure out what had happened. Lady Yeoming—she was Karethys, the woman (necromancer?) who drugged him at the Queen's dinner. She must have done it again, somehow...so this man would be...

He had no idea who the man was.

"I wish you no ill," the Breton spoke, moving his hands in a beatific gesture, "merely to converse with you for a while. One lord to another. Bentyn, chair." He waved his fingers, the guard scuttling to grab a tall stool from outside the room. Once it was set onto the ground, in front of Agronak but well out of reach, the lord carefully settled on it, waving his guard off to stand in the corner.

"I don't know what brought you to the shores of Wayrest, but I'm afraid you've been caught up in something..._terrible_. Something treacherous, traitorous even. You've been used, Agronak, used horribly. It's such a shame." False pity and hollow concern rang through the lord's words.

Agronak continued to glare at the man, wondering what he was talking about. Staying silent seemed the safest strategy, at least until he understood what was going on.

"They don't understand the taxing duties of a lord, do they?" the Breton mused, turning his head to the side, his eyes never leaving Agronak's face as he continually studied him with secretive glances. "It's not all dinners and parties. There's so much to do, so much to pay for..."

Looking back to Agronak with a dazzling smile, he suddenly held his hands out. In one palm sat Agronak's coin purse, looking as fat as he'd last seen it, and in the other the collection of stones along with the amulet the coven had given him. Agronak glanced down, noting his bare chest, the only covering on him his underclothes.

"Gold, precious metals, jewels," the man intoned, though he couldn't hide the small sneer he wore as he turned his nose up at Agronak's stones, disdainful of such low quality pieces, clearly mistaking the reason Agronak owned them. "Ever so helpful, ever so difficult to obtain. Unless you have someone who could help you with that...a _source_, if you will."

The Breton stood, placing the items on the stool. "It's very simple." He gave Agronak a smile so frozen into place it was a marvel it didn't shatter when he spoke. "I can give you much more than _this_," he dismissively waved his hand over the pitiful pile of treasure, "in exchange for a small amount of knowledge. A few simple answers, and you'll be wealthy beyond your dreams."

Agronak didn't reply, instead letting his head loll to the side, as if curious. He _was_ curious—curious as to the man's game, not at all curious as to the potential rewards if he cooperated. Somehow he didn't think gold and jewels would figure much in it, unless they tossed his body down a mine shaft.

"You are a smart one," the man said, sounding a bit surprised. "Good. Now tell me, Lord, the answer to this one little question. I need to know if you've ever seen your escort carrying a document."

Agronak felt his features contort as he fought off fury at the mention of Cerisse. If he thought of her too much, he knew he'd slip into insensible anger. Fortunately the Breton misconstrued the look, thinking Agronak didn't understand the question.

"Document—treaty, piece of parchment, letter," he quickly listed words, hoping for recognition on Agronak's part. "You know, beige flat thing, writing on it?"

Agronak exhaled, dropping his head forward in a stretch, gathering his tattered calm into a more cohesive defense. The Breton took it as a nod, bringing his leather clad hands together in a clap of victory.

"Yes, the beige thing, with the writing. Where did you see it? Where can I find it?" The lord's excitement was obvious, his words asked in haste.

Agronak looked up, gave him a glare, then answered, tongue thick with the aftereffects of the drug. "Book."

The man recoiled as if slapped, smile disappearing as his jaw dropped open. "In a book?" With a heavy sigh, and a shake of his head, he turned to the guard in the back corner. "Did you hear that? I told the creepy bastard it'd be pointless questioning him. He collects rocks!" An angry backhand sent the items on the stool across the room, to clatter into the corner. "He's just another idiot _pig_! No wonder she used him."

He stopped, his attitude changing to cold calm, more worrisome than his outburst of anger. The Breton traced his jaw with his gloved hand, giving Agronak an appraising look. "Though I can't entirely disagree with her choice of him over my cousin. They're equally matched in wits." Turning on his heel, the lord swept out of the room, summoning the guard to follow with a snap of the wrist. "Leave him alone until Lady Yeoming gets here. I want her gifts to be as healthy as possible, and I'm not sure how much of the whore we'll have left when we're done with her."

"Yes, Lord Wickton," Bentyn mumbled, pulling the heavy door shut behind them in a shriek of rust.

Agronak's thoughts slammed against his rage, incoherence ruling his mind. Lady Yeoming—_Karethys_—a necromancer...always carry antidote when dining with a necromancer...or a Wickton...choice of him over my cousin...

He could feel it connected, somehow with Cerisse at the centre, but he couldn't make sense of it. At least, not enough to understand why he wound up drugged, stripped, chained upright, and locked in a...tower? Nor did it help his plans to escape. He could see fae gliding about his arms, but somehow doubted their ability to pick locks. Especially since witches didn't have houses...

With a loud roar of frustrated fury he suddenly contracted his limbs, trying to pull the very chains from the walls. Unfortunately the only result was the angry face of Bentyn in the door, yelling at him to shut up, and pain where he was cuffed, wrists and ankles protesting the abuse.

Breathing deeply, he tried once more to calm himself. Maybe...maybe...maybe _what_? He could think of no way to improve the situation, though his mind all too easily suggested ways it could be worsened. But he could find no comfort in the idea there probably wasn't a shaman on Lord Wickton's staff, or they weren't likely to kill him too soon.

As the vermin on the roof began to squabble, thumps drifting down to his ears, he let out a low chuckle of bitterness. Even in High Rock he couldn't escape the plague of obese squirrels, their muffled noises distracting his scattered attention even further. He looked over to the window, tracking the sound, expecting to see a whirlwind of furry tails as the idiot creatures fell off the roof.

He was _not_ expecting to find the moon rippling over the mountains, like watching its reflection in a lake. As the chameleoned figure slid into the room he stared openly, wondering if he'd gone delirious with rage.

"B'Vehk, Irc, I told you to take care of yourself." The husky voice of the skulking figure sent a wave of joy through him.

"Get me ou—"

"_Nchow_, Irc," Synderius hissed as he clapped his clear hand over Agronak's mouth. "You know you whisper like a rock slide. Now shut up, and let me work." He paused for a moment, looking Agronak over. "You aren't crazed, are you?" Agronak quickly shook his head to indicate he hadn't lost his wits to anger. "Good. I'm going to take my hand away, and I don't want to hear a word out of you. Not one damned word."

The mer started working on the right wrist, the tinny pink of the lockpick almost as loud as his jovial whisper. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you? Oh, I know, you always say it's somebody else's fault. Except I'm always the one bailing you out of your messes. Do you have any idea how much work it was to get Ysabel to stop trying to kill you whenever you visited? And the bruises..."

Synderius' firm grip prevented Agronak from yanking his hand out of the open manacle. Under his careful watch they managed to slide it out with a minimum of noise, the chain slowly guided to lay silent against the wall. Agronak dropped his arm to the side, letting the blood flow into it, pins and needles flaring up as a result.

"Keep an eye on the door," Synderius instructed as he knelt down to work on the right ankle. "Oh, let's not forget the amount of times I had to pick you back up whenever Ilona dropped you from her clutches." He paused, continuing his work with the lockpick. "Or maybe we should forget that for now. Don't want you getting worked up. Ah, that was an easy one."

Agronak didn't move, letting the mer do the job of freeing his ankle. He slid his foot to a more comfortable position, easing the stretching tension from his legs.

"If anyone looks in, pretend you're still chained," Synderius murmured as he fiddled with the left ankle. "I probably should've mentioned that at the start. Ah, well, I'm still getting used to this job. You wouldn't believe how much fun it can be though. There's this little bar on the coast of Lainlyn you really should visit. Such friendly women..."

The third lock taken care of, Synderius stood up, working on Agronak's left wrist. "You know, you're almost one of us now. Maybe I could talk to the Grandmaster for you, if you'd like. Then we could do this sort of thing all the time. Travel, adventure, exotic women...think about it, and let me—_oh_." A small snap punctuated the mer's whispered exclamation.

Agronak glanced over, frustrated he couldn't see Synderius' face for his chameleon spell. He hadn't known the mer was enough of a mage to cast it. But he could see the movement as the mer rubbed the back of his neck while staring at the lock, and he could easily see the stub of metal poking out from the keyhole.

"Hmm." The mer contemplated the dilemma, before suddenly glancing over at Agronak. "Not one word. This is my job, let me handle it." He grabbed the broken piece of metal, but it refused to wiggle free under the mer's ministrations. "Well, there's always the other way. Let's see...what did she say to do again? It's already open, it's already open..." Synderius continued to mumble the words in between cantrips, the lock glowing with pale yellow magicka. Apart from a distinctly disheartening _crunch_, nothing positive happened.

"Agronak," Synderius' sudden switch to his proper name worried him, "when we're telling the story, don't mention this part to anyone, okay? Lilia in particular...now, hmm, we could try..."

"We could try it our way," Agronak whispered as quietly as he could, frustrated he remained stuck to the wall. "Grab hold, and pull."

After a glance at the door to make sure the guard wasn't watching, Synderius took hold of the chain. He silently counted to three with nods, then they both yanked with as much force as they could muster.

The combined power of a grand champion and a gladiator proved more force than necessary, the lump of stone set with an iron ring flying out of the crumbling wall, smacking into the stool, knocking it over with a rattle of chain and crash of wood. Synderius pressed himself against the wall, blending into the stones, while Agronak quickly raised his hands up, hoping the gloom of the unlit room wouldn't reveal his newfound freedom to Bentyn's eyes.

The Breton shouted through the bars as he drew the bolt. "What the hell are you doing in there? Godsdamned _pigs_." He stomped into the room, stopping beside the toppled stool to gape at the fallen chain. "Damn it, I told 'em you'd pull that one out—"

Any further recounting of his precognitive powers was forever prevented as Agronak swung the chain, bringing the hunk of stone in a blindingly fast arc into the side of Bentyn's head. The Breton's body fell to the floor with a thump.

"Oh, that looks like fun. When you're done with it, I want a turn," Synderius stated with approval, checking to make sure the guard wouldn't be getting up again. He turned back to Agronak, his tone changing into one of urgency. "Hey, Irc, what are you doing? We need to talk."

"I'm going to find Cerisse," he growled, gathering his effects from the corner. Quickly glancing at Bentyn, noting the man's clothes and armour wouldn't possibly fit him, and he didn't have so much as a dagger on him, Agronak turned to the door.

"You daft s'wit!" Synderius launched himself at Agronak, hitting his friend with an awkward tackle, both of them landing hard against the wall. "You'll kill her if you do that!" Agronak glared at the mer as he rubbed the arm where it had bounced against the rough stones. "That got your attention, didn't it? Listen to me, please. It won't even take a minute. We'll get you healed as we talk."

"I'll do it," Agronak grumbled, waving away the mer's spells. "You talk. Fast." He slid his amulet over his neck then grabbed a fae, whispering to it for healing. To his surprise the request worked, a pale ball of white light sending remarkable relief into his aches as it roamed over his skin. Cerisse hadn't even taught him that one yet.

"What did you just..." Synderius let the question drop, hurrying to speak before Agronak's patience ran out. "How do you think I found you? I've been following you since you crossed over into Wayrest. I saw you go into the Lodge, and I saw you come out." He paused, giving Agronak some kind of look—what it was supposed to be he couldn't tell, the mer's distorted, clear features obscuring the message.

"Drop your spell if you're going to do that," Agronak grumped.

"I can't. It's a potion. I'm not sure how long it'll last. Lilia showed me how to make it, but there was this gorgeous maid sweeping the floor, so now I can't remember if I was supposed to add the...right." Synderius set himself back on topic with a nod. "There's at least a dozen of them, not including Lord Wickton, and there was a creepy bastard with the strangest eyes, but I saw him leave about an hour ago. He'll probably be back."

"I can handle the mercenaries. You can have the Lord." Impatience began to replace the pain as the fae continued its work.

"Funny. Listen, Agronak, I've got to tell you—my orders are to get the treaty, then make it back safe. I'm not supposed to attempt any rescues or kill anybody—only get the document in case of trouble then get the hell out. Only then am I to raise the alarm and send in the knights to save the day."

"If you think I'm going to—" Agronak started to complain, his voice rising in frustration.

"No! Damn it, Irc, be quiet!" Synderius sighed, shaking his head, making the hallway dance. Agronak never could get used to looking at chameleoned figures. There was something disturbing about seeing _through_ them. "Of course I don't expect you to cooperate. You never do. I'm just saying that _I_," he stressed the word for a long breath, "am not supposed to do those things. Now, as you are somebody no one can control, I can't be blamed if _you_ do it. And since _I_ don't know where the treaty is unless you tell me—you won't tell me will you? Didn't think so—then I have no choice but to try keeping your fool self alive long enough to learn the answer."

"So then we're ready—" Agronak started to say, heading towards the door.

Synderius pushed Agronak back with a curse. "This isn't the Arena. They don't play fair." Satisfied Agronak wouldn't run off, he let go of his friend, running his hands through his hair with a sigh. "We're in some sort of ruin, looks kind of like a short fortress. They put you up here, but took her downstairs. And they only left one man to guard you. It's likely most of them are guarding her—somehow they know she's working with us—but they think you're nothing more than a bystander. We can't go busting in there. They'll use her as a hostage, guaranteed. So we do it my way. Agreed?"

Agronak nodded with a growl, understanding the danger, frustrated it existed. He was supposed to protect Cerisse, damn it, and here he was, almost naked, armed with nothing more than a bunch of rocks, following the directions of the s'wit who had a nasty habit of falling off the roof of Crowhaven, without any ranged attacks other than some glowing fae and a lousy fireball spell.

They weren't exactly working with a lot of tools here.

A quick strategy session later, Agronak crept along behind Synderius, the chameleoned mer scouting ahead before waving him on. They'd left his coin purse behind when they realized not only would it jingle when he moved, he didn't have anything to strap it to. He took the stones though—if worse came to worse, he might be able to knock someone's eye out with a well aimed throw.

As they moved down the levels, encountering nothing more threatening than a startled mouse, he grew increasingly nervous. It felt like they were taking too long, every moment another moment Cerisse was in danger. Hopefully not in pain—he knew she couldn't handle much pain...

"_Fetcher_!" Synderius swiped him on the head, shocking Agronak back to the present. "Pay attention, or I'll leave you behind." He hadn't noticed the mer had stopped moving, and his accidental bump nearly sent them both sprawling. The Dunmer pointed a rippling arm at a nearby staircase, the dark rock walls curling down underground. "It doesn't look like anyone's used this in ages. It's covered in webs. It should take us down to the dungeon." He turned back to Agronak, his voice taking on a serious note, one he rarely used. "If you don't think you can control yourself, you'll need to wait here. This is too dangerous for mistakes."

"I can do it. I _will_ do it." Agronak's gruff reassurances seemed to satisfy the mer, his hunched figure crouched low as they made their way down the stairs, trying to avoid the worst of the dusty cobwebs. As he descended further into the dark passage, Agronak felt a new sensation take over—heightened senses and rushing blood, precursor to battle. He welcomed it, feeling his mind sharpen into an aggressive clarity, every sense sparking with excitement as he sought out threats.

The staircase deposited them at the far end of a poorly lit hallway, filled with the overwhelming scent of mold and damp. The rock walls, dug out of the ground, wore a decorative a layer of slime. A torch at the other end provided the barest of light, but it allowed him to see no-one patrolled the hall.

Synderius began to creep forward, but Agronak shot out a hand, holding the mer back. He could hear something—voices—echoing off the walls. He closed his eyes and listened, trusting the shadows to hide them from view.

"Creepy bastard, ain't he? I'm glad he left. And what was all that '_she stinks like green_' nonsense?" The voice recalled the quote in a mocking tone, before breaking into a laugh.

"She smells damn good to me." This speaker was louder, slower, sounding rather dim-witted.

"Oy! Keep away from her." A third voice—clear, commanding—shouted out so loudly even Synderius, with his compromised hearing, stiffened when he heard the words. "We don't touch so much as a hair on her head until she wakes up. Then we get the boss. Sit your dumb ass down."

"I was just going to sniff her. That ain't hurting nothing," the dullard protested petulantly. "I still got his stink in my nose. Smells like...that room in the churches..."

"The chapel?" the joker suggested with heavy sarcasm.

"No," the dullard whined, "where they put the dead things."

"Undercroft." The one Agronak assumed to be in charge spat out the word with irritation.

"Bless you." The half-wit's pronouncement, mistaking the hasty word for a sneeze, sent up a chorus of laughter. There were certainly more than three of them in there. Agronak's heart sank as he kept listening. He could hear Synderius slowly creeping forward, trying to find a better spot to eavesdrop. Daft s'wit, he'd told the mer to get himself healed properly after taking a warhammer to the face, but no, he liked the way his nose looked when broken...

Fortunately it hadn't damaged the mer's ears too much, lowering his naturally excellent merish hearing to that of a regular Imperial. The Dunmer didn't go very far before he stopped, able to listen to the voices, raised as they began to bicker, bored with their assignment.

"I'm going to see Bentyn. The Orc was waking up, maybe there's something to do there. She's so small—she ain't getting up for hours." A new voice, that of one quick to anger, cut through the air.

"You stay here," the boss shouted, "or you'll never leave."

"I've been here for hours already! You think she'll ever be getting up after a _necromancer_ drugged her?" At the word the hall filled with a babble of voices, all of them carrying some level of fear, as the men demanded answers while voicing their concerns about necromancers, the undead, and abandoned ruins in general. The man in charge tried to deflect them, not sounding entirely convincing as he reassured them they weren't dealing with necromancers.

Agronak leaned forward, tapping Synderius' heel, gesturing the mer back. They crept partway up the stairwell to lessen the risk someone would overhear them. "They're scared. Send your guardian in and they'll scatter. Then we make our move." As soon as the mer started rubbing his neck Agronak knew the plan wouldn't work. "Godsdamn it, you fetcher! You said you weren't going to do that anymore."

"Is it my fault women can't resist looking at it?" Synderius protested, not sounding at all chastised. "I can't help it if I have a rather large ancestor guardian. And it's ever so much easier to see it in the dark, behind closed doors..."

Agronak restrained his desire to growl. They needed some kind of nightmare creature—ghost, zombie, lich—and he was stuck here with the one Dunmer who never once called his guardian to do any actual guarding. The s'wit had probably angered his ancestors so much he wouldn't be able to summon one for at least a month. If he was lucky.

"Here, we'll float this in front of them," Synderius offered, having pulled off his tunic, tossing it to Agronak. Once it was out of range of the potion's effects he could see it was made of pale linen. "I'll control the body, you do the sleeves."

"I doubt they'll run away from a dancing shirt," Agronak muttered dryly. No, they needed something a bit more authentic. Maybe if one of them knew a light spell they could make it glow, except green was a dead giveaway...

Figuring the experiment couldn't hurt, Agronak pulled the laces around the neck of the tunic closed. Giving it a quick knot, as satisfied with the result as the situation allowed, he scooped a fae from his shoulder and whispered his request.

To his happy astonishment it worked, the fae taking on an unearthly cold blue glow before floating up to hover inside the shirt. A shaky telekinesis spell later—moving the garment slowly, fae drifting along within it—he demanded a blade from Synderius.

"What is that? How do you do that?" The mer poked the linen covering the fae as Agronak cut the sleeve into tattered strips, trying to make it look more like a spectral...something, rather than the ghost of clothing past.

"Fae," Agronak grunted, reaching for the other sleeve. Seeing Synderius' frozen form, knowing the mer didn't understand, he explained further. "Or whilloken, if you prefer." In a burst of inspiration he whirled the garment overhead, capturing as many stringy cobwebs as he could to decorate it.

"I don't suppose you know a good frost spell," Synderius muttered, surveying the mock ghost, having abandoned his attempts to get Agronak to explain his unusual magic. "It's perfect otherwise."

Damn it. The mer was right—every ghost brought with it a drop in temperature, a chill, clammy cold to raise the hairs and tense the nerves. The damp air felt cold enough, but without that rolling draft...

"You'll have to do the flying. I'll handle the rest." Agronak motioned the mer back down the stairs, tugging the floating quasi-ghost along with him. He could hear the boss browbeating his unhappy compatriots into staying put, listing the many reasons there was no possibility the presence of a necromancer—not that any of them could prove the creepy bastard was one—would arouse any vengeful spirits—not that there was any reason to suspect there were any—that may or may not be lurking in the ruins...

Agronak settled himself, noting his bare skin didn't mind the cold floor, but his clad bottom did. While he felt fairly certain Cerisse was right, and the fae would protect him from the elements were he naked, he didn't think now was the time to test the assumption. Instead he set the turquoise and jade to the side, leaving nothing in between his palms except the little piece of amethyst.

A quick prayer to the Gods for luck later—this sketchy plan needed all the help it could get—he began thinking of air, particularly of drafts, recalling the creeping cold of the Cromville Commons mages guild. Whether it was due to his amulet, his increased skill, or his desperation it worked much better than before, an unnatural breeze fluttering the ragged remnants of cobwebs, setting the sliced hem of the tunic to waver as if underwater, unlike any natural draft could ever do.

The nervous voices began asking questions well before the light of the approaching ghost crept into view. The boss, sick of the disagreements, stepped out into the hall to prove there wasn't anything out there, his comforting words turning into a shocked yell when he saw the spectre.

"You said it's just a ghost!" the angry voice who'd begun the arguments shouted out. "They're easy to kill, you said! So kill it!"

"Devyn, do _you_ have a silver weapon?"

A sudden silence settled over the group, before several voices cursed at once. The men scrambled out of the room, fleeing around the corner at the end of the hall, hasty footsteps marking their progress as they ran up the stairs.

Agronak and Synderius abandoned their spells, leaving the deflated fae-ghost to float in the hall as they bolted to the abandoned room. When he caught sight of Cerisse, looking so tiny compared to the shackles locked around her sleeping form, he felt a wave of anger slam into him. Synderius noticed, pressing a small cloth covered bottle into Agronak's hand. "Give her that. She's fine, Irc. Don't you get worked up for no reason. We don't have much time." He began scouting the room, leaving Agronak to tend to Cerisse.

She seemed so impossibly delicate as he held up her head, tilting the potion to her lips. Only after he administered the dose did he wonder if Synderius brewed it, suddenly worried by the mer's propensity for distractions. No matter what the s'wit asked, he'd make sure to mention to Lilia her student hadn't paid proper attention. Sometimes the mer needed saving from himself, even if it meant getting him into trouble for his own good.

"What...?" Cerisse's confused question made him smile—she was awake, taking her surroundings in with wide eyes. Suddenly she sat up, movements a flurry of haste. "Dibella's grace, it's all shot to the hells, isn't it?"

"Can you help her get the..." Agronak's call to Synderius to aid Cerisse with her bonds died as she shook a lock off one slim wrist, taken care of with her open spell.

"That's you?" Synderius asked, watching as she removed her shackles. "I remember you as more blonde. Or grey. I liked the blonde. Though this is better than the grey, so I'm not complaining." He crossed his arms with a grin, the expression visible as his chameleon effect fell away His smile quickly turned to happy surprise as he shrugged over to Agronak. "Well look at that. Guess it wears off now."

Cerisse stood up, waving away Agronak's helping hands. Whoever brewed the potion, had done a masterful job, Cerisse looking more awake and alert than he felt. She froze, staring first from Agronak to Synderius, before shaking her head. "Is this an Arena thing, or is there a reason neither of you are properly dressed?" She noticed the rock shackled to Agronak's left wrist. "And why are you chained to a stone?"

Agronak held out his wrist as Cerisse tried to spell the lock open, while Synderius poked about the room, looking into barrels and cupboards. The mer called over to Cerisse. "You don't know where they've put your things, do you?"

"I don't even know what day it is," she tartly answered, before muttering_ s'wit_ under her breath. Agronak wasn't sure if it was at the mer or the stubborn lock. She growled at the lock, giving it a futile tug with her hand to try to open it, before giving up. "That's only coming off with a blacksmith's aid. It's like someone melted the tumblers shut. Why would they chain you to a rock?"

"Here we go," Synderius exclaimed, rubbing his hands as he knelt in front a metal door, set in the far corner. "It's locked, and it's _new_. Gotta be something behind here."

"Go," Agronak hastily urged Cerisse, trusting her skill over his friend's. As she switched places with the mer, tentatively feeling the lock with the lightest of touches, the Dunmer took up position right beside her, elbow propped against the wall, smile on his face.

"Step away," Cerisse chastised, glancing at the mer when her elbow brushed against him. "Where'd you get those?" she asked as she turned her attentions back to the lock, having noticed the mer's scars.

"Battle of Bruma," he purred, tracing the semi-circle of marks with his finger. "Bitten by a daedroth. You can touch them if you like."

"_Flah_," Agronak warned, their code word to back off. It meant nothing other than _friend_ in Dunmeris, but they'd developed it to prevent any misunderstandings when it came to the ladies. "Let her work."

"Good for you," Synderius congratulated Agronak with a leering grin as he passed by. "I'll watch the door."

The shake of Cerisse's head and her frustrated sighs told of her troubles. "It's no good," she finally declared, sitting back on her heels, "it's a magical lock. Needs a unique key."

"Is the whole door magical?" Agronak inquired, wondering if they might be able to melt it open with enough fire spells. His hopes, raised when Cerisse indicated only the lock was enchanted, were quickly dashed when a survey revealed nobody possessed that kind of ability.

As Cerisse asked Synderius several terse questions about where they were (southwest Orsinium), how long since they'd been drugged (a day), and what the plan was (it wasn't a plan, so much as a _strategy..._), Agronak inspected the door, looking for some way to open it. Synderius was correct—recently installation, the addition of a uniquely magical lock only served to further convince him his things most likely lay on the other side of it. A frustrated kick did nothing, barely able to vibrate the door on its hinges...

Taking the chunk of wall chained to his wrist, he raised it high overhead, before slamming it down on the door's pinnings. The bolt holding the hinge together fell out, rattling over the scuzzy floor with a moist _ting_. Elated whoever installed this hadn't realized the hinges should go on the _other _side of the door, Agronak made short work of the rest of them. Synderius came over, and between the two of them they managed to tug the heavy door out of place, allowing a small gap for light to filter through.

"It's there," Cerisse happily exclaimed, sliding between the door and the slimy wall as she conjured up a lighting fae to aid her. Working as quickly as she could, she passed their things out—packs, weapons, armour. Other than having to slice the sleeves off his shirt and cuirass—the rock chained to his arm too big to fit through them—Agronak clad himself with grateful relief.

"You found one!" Synderius' delighted smile expressed his happiness at the orcish staff. "She'll love it. And it's so light! I always thought orcish was heavy."

"It is," Cerisse added, hidden amusement in the corner of her lips.

"What is this?" Synderius chuckled, having found Agronak's gift from the knife store in Orsinium. He pulled the miniature dagger from its sheath, squeezing the hilt between his thumb and index finger, stabbing the air with amused glee. "Is it for fighting mice?"

"Forget it—it's for cleaning teeth," Agronak dismissed the useless weapon, not caring what Synderius did with it. "I'm going to have to leave this." He sighed as he looked mournfully at his shield. He'd grown very fond of it, secretly proud of the terrifying scratches and claw marks marring the metal. But he couldn't possibly wear it on his arm so long as the rock remained chained to it.

"_How_ did you do _that_?" Synderius demanded, picking it up to gape at the damage. "Do you mind if I...?"

Agronak waved for him to put it on. The mer could use every piece of armour he could get—other than his leather breeches, boots, and longsword, he had no other protection, his ruined tunic still hovering in the hall. "Wereboar," he supplied, explaining the rents in the shield.

"_Wereboar_? I know you're talented, Irc, but you expect me to believe you..." Synderius' good natured teasing fell away as he realized Agronak was serious. "Now that's one you'll have to tell me over a mug or two. So, will you carry the staff, or should I?"

"I'll take it. It'll only get in your way," Cerisse offered, picking it up. It was much too long for her, but Agronak knew she wouldn't attempt to use it. "This is your area of expertise, gentlemen. Lead the way."

"There's a back staircase. You could sneak out—"

Cerisse cut Agronak's idea off with an emphatic shake of the head. "I might not be much in a fight, but I'll do what I can. I'll follow you invisibly—I'm not much protection, but you'll just have to take it."

Agronak grabbed his bold little protectress, giving his nymph a kiss, her feet dangling off the ground. He set her down with a grin. "For luck."

She nodded back at him with a smile, before flushing under Synderius' amused watch. Eager to get underway, they crept out into the hall, choosing to try the back staircase anyway, in hopes they could avoid detection then perhaps find another way out, though Synderius mentioned he'd only seen the one door leading in to the building.

They didn't get very far before they were discovered, a group of four guards waiting on the main floor at the top of the stairs. Agronak, being the best armed and armoured, emerged first.

"Tell the Captain we found him." The leader nodded over to a wiry man. "Told you he wouldn't get far."

The man sent to get reinforcements didn't get far either, Agronak's rock on a leash smashing into his knees, taking him down. As he pressed the attack, using the chain to whirl the attached stone around as a sort of flail, occasionally lashing it out like a whip, his sword hand kept busy, fending off blows and dealing with the clumsy movements of the mercenaries.

Agronak quickly discovered Synderius needed to stay on his right side, to allow the full use of the makeshift rock weapon. Once they'd sorted this out they made short work of the guards. Agronak felt his spirits rise—they'd just eliminated a third of their opponents, neither of them receiving so much as a scratch in return. Perhaps things would work out in their favour.

Following Synderius, occasionally making sure Cerisse still followed along invisibly, Agronak helped explore the hallways. To their frustration none of the rooms had so much as a window, and after several long minutes searching the connected corridors, they somehow found themselves back at the staircase, bodies still scattered about, exactly as they left them.

"I think we need to go down to take the other staircase," Cerisse's voice whispered to them, her figure hidden with her spell. "This looks like an old stronghold, built to slow invaders. If I'm right, you can only get to this part by passing through the dungeons, or the highest level of the tower. The idea was to force the attackers to funnel in, picking them off one at a time."

"What's in the other part?" Agronak asked, chagrined by the cleverness of the Bretons. Though only two warriors made up their army, he still didn't like the idea of getting hemmed in, or having to go all the way back up so many flights of stairs.

"Usually a large hall with some side chambers—when they weren't at war the nobles would entertain and hold court," she muttered dryly.

After a glance to Synderius, to confirm the mer had no better suggestions, Agronak led them back down to the dank underground hallway. The fae had faded away, the tattered tunic nothing but a puddle on the floor. As he crept along the cold passage, listening intently, he wasn't pleased to note he could hear nothing at all. Were the men sufficiently frightened away, they should still be making a racket—discussing how to drive off the ghost, debating about who would do it, ribbing each other in attempts to deny their own fear. But it was quiet as the grave, a comparison he didn't care for.

Holding the slightly bloodied lump of rock in his left hand, ready to throw it, his sword firmly in his right, Agronak carefully made his way up the far stairs, braced for a surprise assault. To his surprise none came—instead, he emerged from the stairwell unmolested into a grand chamber. Dark pillars of rock extended several stories high to hold up the roof, while sputtering torchlight allowed him a good view of the eight mercenaries waiting for him, blocking his access to the large open doors at the opposite end of the room. Moonlight and fresh air tantalized him, spurring his desire to get free.

One of them, with the best and brightest armour of the group, stepped forward. "You may have gotten out of your cell, _pig_, but you're not getting out of here alive. Now why don't you..." he trailed off as Synderius entered the room to stand at Agronak's side. "I don't know who you are, _elf_, but you both need to drop your weapons and surrender. Make it easy on yourselves, and we'll make it quick."

The men behind the leader began to murmur heartening words to each other, ascribing the ghost in the basement to an ancestor guardian, the thought dispelling their lingering worries. Rolling shoulders and cracking knuckles indicated they were gearing up for a good fight.

"Eight against two. It's almost too easy," Synderius muttered with a malicious grin, blood up, swinging his longsword in limber loops. "I'll take right, you go left, and I'll race you to the door."

"You're on," Agronak agreed, whirling his rock on a shortened chain, building momentum as he moved forward. The guards began to drift apart into two different groups, wary eyes on the escaping prisoner and unknown visitor, confidence still running high.

Synderius' fierce cry, given as he spun out of the way of an axe, heralded the vibrant blur of battle. Agronak's focus narrowed to his heightened senses, aware only of what happened around his body: the press of air as a mace narrowly missed its target, the vibration along his arm when his sword collided against bone, the moist thwack of his makeshift flail sinking into flesh. The remaining mercenaries' attacks began to slow, the injuries plaguing them reducing their level of threat enough to allow Agronak a glance over at his friend.

The mer had already laid out two of his opponents, fresh blood spatters of the fallen and old scars of past enemies making the Dunmer a threatening sight to behold as he cracked his neck, confidently circling his foes. Curious as to how much, if anything, the mer had learned in his travels, Agronak finished off his own opponents—two well placed thrusts of his sword ending their threat forever.

"Take your time," Agronak called over to the mer, leaning his back against a pillar, resting the point of his sword on the floor, creating the impression of relaxation. "I'm finished already."

"You never did have a sense of finesse," Synderius shouted back, the casual banter between the highly skilled warriors unnerving the surviving mercenaries even further. "Always efficiency over showmanshi—_damn_!"

The guards, spurred on with the shaky speed of panic, both attacked at once. Synderius, distracted with chatting, managed to block both blows, his sword knocking back one man, his borrowed shield deflecting the other. Unluckly his positioning was awkward, and the tip of the sword skittering against the grooves in the shield slipped down, slicing a deep gash into the mer's thigh, dropping him to his knees.

As Agronak began to run forward, Synderius quickly stabbed the nearest threat, the guard who'd injured him, before he could complete his successful attack. But by doing so he left the back of his neck unprotected. Agronak watched with horror as the remaining mercenary's eyes twinkled when he noticed it, the man pulling his sword back to strike...

Except the blow never came, the sudden small hand on the guard's neck, and the vortex of power drawn from his mouth, preventing the attack. Cerisse, with strength beyond her measure, held the man's limp body in one hand, easily lowering him down beside Synderius as she knelt next to the mer, resting the staff to the side.

"That's...you...thank you," the mer stammered in shock, unsure what Cerisse had done, grateful she'd done it. Rallying, he attempted to downplay his injury as she silently inspected it, one hand still clamped firmly to the guard's throat. "It's just a scratch. Y'know, it'll probably heal into a lovely scar. It's right along the muscle, so it—hey, what are you...?"

Agronak watched as Cerisse's other hand tightly grasped the mer's forearm, fingers digging into his flesh. He wondered if Synderius could see the golden threads flowing over her, drawn from the unconscious Breton to run along her arm, over her shoulders, down the other arm into the Dunmer's skin. Whatever he did see, it surprised Synderius, his eyes wide with wonder as she quickly healed him.

"Let's get out of here," Cerisse stated quietly, picking up the staff as she stood. With a nod to Agronak as she passed by him, she started walking towards the door.

"Did you see what she did?" Synderius asked as he stood, rubbing the bruises in his arm away with his own healing magic. "Got a good grip, too."

"It's all the harvesting," Agronak tried to explain, his answer only confusing the mer. When Synderius asked if the fetcher on the floor was dead, he shook his head, certain Cerisse wouldn't do such a thing.

Placing his boot on the man's forehead, the mer quickly twisted his foot. "He is now. Let's go—I don't think she takes kindly to waiting."

Cerisse, tip of the staff resting on the floor, watched with impatience as they walked towards her. Moon and torch cast her in two different lights—the warm glow of fire and life outlining her features on one side, the silver and shadow of the night sky sharing its ethereal radiance on the other. With her hair loose, and her more rested than she'd been in days, Agronak marveled he'd never seen her look so beautiful or powerful as she did now.

"Lady Cerisse Hawkton," the lord's gloved hands seized her as his invisibility spell fell away, leather covered fingers entwining in her hair, pulling her head back, tip of a thin dagger pressed into her throat, drawing out a wellspring of blood. "It would be rude of you to leave without saying goodbye."

After her initial gasp of surprise, Cerisse composed herself. "Lord Theodyrick Wickton. After all the kindness your family has shown me over the years, I'd be remiss if I didn't give you my proper respects."

"Tell them to stay back," Theodyrick growled into her ear, causing her to squeak as the dagger pressed deeper. "Because I _will_ hurt you if they don't."

Synderius' hand pressed against Agronak's chest, indicating for him to remain on the spot. Anger and frustration tore through Agronak's composure, enough to make his arms shake as he fought to keep himself under control. _So close_...and now Cerisse's life was in danger, her small frame large enough to use as a shield by her assailant, not that they had anything with enough range to try killing Theodyrick.

"Now, this is a very simple question, with a very simple answer." Theodyrick pulled her head even higher, Cerisse resorting to standing on tiptoe, eyes watering with pain as he clutched her by her hair. The man's lips hovered next to her ear, while his eyes never strayed from the warriors on the other side of the room. "I know what you're carrying, and I know you've found your things, so I know you've got it on you. Tell me—where is the treaty?"

"I've got it." Both Synderius and Agronak called out the response at the same time, hoping to get the Breton to let Cerisse go.

Instead Theodyrick smiled, the smug smile of a con running a crooked game. He made a disapproving sound at them, before dragging Cerisse back towards the door. "Tsk. You really did surround yourself with half-wits, didn't you? Since they don't have it, you must. In which case, their presence is unnecessary. Let's take a little trip outside—alone."

"You won't get far," Synderius yelled, Theodyrick pausing to listen. "And if you kill her, we'll kill you."

"Of course you would," he scoffed at the obviousness of the statement. "I've already attempted to kill the _pig_ once before, I'm not about to try again on my own." Theodyrick turned his heavily lidded eyes to Agronak for a quick appraisal. "I should've known better than to send a wereboar after a _pig_. The two of you probably oinked a lovely conversation to each other in between rolls in the mud."

"_You_ sent the—ow," Cerisse's question died as Lord Wickton yanked her hair.

"Did Eddy not tell you, my dear?" Theodyrick's voice sent a pit of ice into Agronak's stomach, the chilling contempt and mocking kindness ill omens, worsened by the mention of that name. "Or have you so easily forgotten what a fool he was? There were many things I didn't tell my cousin, like the fact his _whore_ took up with an _Orc_." The lord's smile grew more genuine for a moment as he contemplated something. "Though I'll be sure to mention it when I see him next." Dragging Cerisse back with him, Lord Wickton snarled instructions as he stepped outside. "Do not leave this room, or I'll make her wish for death."

As soon as the Breton disappeared from view Agronak and Synderius ran to the doorway, the mer barring access outside with his arms while whispering furiously at Agronak not to follow. "Get too close and he'll kill her. He'll do it."

The mer's words did nothing to prevent Agronak from experiencing the full fury of his helplessness as he watched Cerisse being pulled further along the road, tip of the staff and her toes marking a pitiful trail in the dust. _If_ Theodyrick didn't have her arms pinned so tightly, _if_ her hands had flesh to grab, Agronak knew she could level him with her magic. All he could do was watch, hoping something changed.

He didn't expect the change to come from the air, erratic gusts whipping up miniature cyclones of dirt to spin for mere moments before abandoning them to their demise. Over the noise of skittering pebbles and flapping leaves he thought he caught the faintest note of Cerisse's whispers—not those of voice, but of _magic_.

From his vantage point at the door he watched things unfold, the span of moments passing like eternities in his vision. Floating shapes filtered out from the trees, not glittering like the fae, but shadowy clusters of darkness. The silver light of the moons disappeared as the torches in the hall guttered and died. Nothing but a dull blue gloom lit the world, all other colour drained away.

Theodyrick, noticing something was wrong, briefly relaxed his grip as he glanced around, unable to understand what was happening. Cerisse took advantage of the opportunity, her thin frame sliding out of his arms, the staff trapped in his elbow. Instead of running far away she darted off to stand out of reach, her voice rising as she stretched out her hands towards Theodyrick. The wind plucked at her hair, pulling it up in all directions, a corona of energy marking the dark power surrounding her.

When Synderius began to gasp for breath Agronak placed his hand on the mer's back in unthinking assistance, too awed by the spectacle to realize he'd done it. The drifting balls of shadow began to somehow darken, tendrils of deepest black wisping out from them like vapour trails, smoke fingers to steal the very life from the world. A rotten scent, of mouldering vegetables, overripe fruit, and spoilt meat perfumed the air.

Theodyrick, terrified beyond reason, took hold of the staff, waving it around in circles in an attempt to drive away the things he couldn't see. The weapon had no effect, the shadows drawing ever nearer. As Cerisse cried out an ancient word, so old no tongue could speak it, Agronak understood exactly what he was witnessing—the other side of nature magic, not that of growing things and giggling spriggans, but the greed of carrion feeders and fungus, the indifference of plagues, the unrelenting persistence of wind and rain—_destruction_, the balancing force of creation.

With sudden speed the shadows began to spin around Theodyrick, the plucking darkness touching him here and there, making him jerk as he let out the most horrific scream Agronak had ever heard. He watched the Breton turn, slowly at first, then ever faster, smoke shadows streaming around him like a whirl of veils, face a mask of horror, that same bloodcurdling scream issuing from his mouth. The blur around him grew black, all light stolen into perfect shadow.

Then it was over, the moonlight reasserting itself as if coming out from behind a thick cloud, the wind dying to a gentle breeze redolent with pine, the mass of blackness dissipating into the sky in billowing torrents, like the steam from a campfire doused by a bucket of water. Theodyrick's still body lay in the dirt, staff rolling out of his limp fingers.

"What just happened?" Synderius asked, blinking his eyes as he stepped out into the night. Agronak didn't bother answering, instead sprinting over to Cerisse where she stood stiffly, staring down at the body. He tentatively reached to touch her, worried she was about to lose control.

"It's over," she whispered, throwing herself against Agronak, holding him in a tight embrace. She wasn't crying, nor did it look like she would. As he rubbed her back she explained, never loosening her grip on him. "He tried to kill you, and me. He _would_ have killed me..." she paused, sighing deeply. "Sometimes, the only way to achieve balance is with the taking of a life, if that life is too out of balance to be allowed to continue. Like werekind, vampires, liches..."

"And Wicktons," Agronak murmured, kissing the top of her head. To his pleasure she snickered lightly at the morbid humour, a hollow noise more from the release of tension rather than genuine amusement.

"Will _somebody_ tell me _what's going on_?" Synderius demanded, boots crunching on the gravel. "How did you do that?"

"_Witch magic_," Agronak answered, raising one hand to make spooky fingers, earning a proper laugh and another squeeze from Cerisse.

"Witch? _Witches_?" Synderius glanced from Cerisse to Theodyrick's body several times, before looking sharply at Agronak. "Witches don't fight in the Arena, do they?"

"No," they both answered with a chuckle.

"Praise Almsivi's infinite mercy," Synderius murmured, bringing his palms together to touch them to his heart, his forehead, and then open them above his head in prayer. Thanks to the deities complete, he shook his head as he motioned for them to start walking. "Let's get out of here before that creepy bastard gets back. I've had enough strange magic for one night. Cerisse, you've got the treaty, right?"

"It's over there," she answered, pointing to the ground.

"What, you gave it to that fetcher?" Synderius frowned as he walked closer to the body. "Did you see where he put it?"

"No, he doesn't have it," Cerisse scoffed, snuggling against Agronak's side as they slowly made their way forward. "It's beside him."

"On the ground?" The mer brushed his hair back as he looked around, studying the dirt.

"In the staff," Agronak clarified, pointing towards the weapon.

Synderius snatched it up with an angry shake of the head. "Irc, do you think I've gone daft? This is made of _metal_." He rapped the staff against the palm of his hand in emphasis. "Now how could you put parchment _into_ metal?"

"You could if it's hollow," Agronak smirked as he passed by with Cerisse, making sure he stood on the side closest to the body. As well as she was handling it, he felt sure she didn't need any more reminders of the incident.

"_Hollow_," the mer repeated the word to himself. "Her staff is hollow. She's going to _love_ this." Synderius quickly jogged to catch up with them, large grin on his face. "B'Vehk, Irc, you've got to tell me where you managed to dig up the most perfect staff for the most demanding woman in existence."

With a laugh Agronak gladly began to share his tales of adventure with the mer—after all, he firmly believed everything that happened to him since they'd parted ways _was_ Synderius' fault.


	34. Conveyance Options for the Journey Home

Dawn crept over the mountains, sky lightening to pale blue in the east, colours of nature waking up in all their saturated glory. He pulled his hood further up in an attempt to block it out, hating it all. Too much sunshine hurt his eyes, and today was shaping up to be a _bright_—and long—day.

"Gone," he stated, nodding deferentially to the patiently waiting woman still standing in the middle of the dusty road where he'd left her. "Only the dead remain. They left this behind." With a low bow, he offered up the leather pouch, trying to minimize the jingling of the coins. The noise made him think of _bright_, the word encompassing everything he despised.

"It stinks of _green_," she stated as she took it, looking it over as it rolled in her hands. The sound made him grit his teeth. Turning her molten eyes from it, she gazed over at him, pulse of displeasure rolling off her in a wave of magicka. It didn't hurt him, but it unnerved him. He'd never studied under one such as her, her skills and abilities rumoured to be the closest any mortal had come to imitating their lost Master's. "Did you think her a witch?"

"No," he quickly answered, "she smelt almost as bad. A friend of the coven, maybe. He also stank of their foul magics."

She nodded grimly at this, his words confirming her suspicions.

"Would you have me seek them out, for your revenge?" he hastily offered in an attempt to please her, wanting to bow low, out of range of her eyes, but he found himself unable to look away.

Her eyes glittered like rubies as her smile returned, the most secretive, promising, dangerous smile he'd ever beheld. "_Revenge_...that's a word I suggest you forget, if you plan to live as long as I do. Revenge is something the fools concern themselves with. You and I," she somehow created a warmth inside him, a cozy sensation of intimacy to bubble in his chest, "need concern ourselves only with mastery."

"Yes, Mistress," he muttered, suddenly feeling foolish and ignorant. After all, he'd begged to learn from her because she knew so much, had already lived out her lifetime several times over without resorting to the _usual_ methods. Suggesting things to her was perhaps..._unnecessary_.

"Besides," she continued, looking down to the ground, the removal of her eyes a palpable sensation, as if he'd been released from a tight hug, "why would I bother? They killed my lover, yes." She knelt down in the dirt, next to the body. Her fingers ran over the cold flesh, gently caressing unfeeling cheeks.

"My brash, idiotic, prejudiced lover." Her hand paused, thumb tracing the dimple of the chin. "He knew I would aid him no further, yet he still sought out your assistance, pretending this errand was my will. Even if he could provide me with his gifts, he would have learnt the error of his ways for such an offense."

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. Somehow she seemed to notice, turning back to him with her warm grin. "Do not concern yourself with my displeasure. You did as I instructed, so you shall be rewarded."

"Thank you, Mistress," he gratefully replied, his mouth having gone dry. He was relieved to have no further dealings with Lord Wickton, the man having approached him during one of his visits, inquiring about his ability to brew a certain drug. He had, of course, revealed all to his Mistress, and only after her blessing did he agreed to provide assistance when the time came.

He had not enjoyed the task, having to deal with the stench of the prisoners, the travel during the day, the dismissive contempt of that pompous lord. The man's fate was less than he deserved—too bad he didn't know the extent of his luck.

"Theodyrick, darling," she whispered, lowering her mouth to the corpse's ear. "You once promised you'd make it up to me. That you'd keep me company, work to make me happy. It's time, dear, to make good on your promise." Bending over, she kissed the cold lips, a flare of violet magicka pulsing into the body.

The heavily lidded eyes _opened_.

Rising with easy grace, she looked back to him, red eyes glittering with pleasure as she waited for the reanimated corpse to stand. "There is much for you to do, Acolyte. Retrieve the bodies, then bring them back with the wagon. Make sure you don't forget _any_ of the pieces."

"As you will, Mistress Karethys," he responded quietly, words hard to find. He was sinking, falling into the depths of her glowing eyes, blood red rubies lit with the spark of fire. Her eyes...they were like no other. Rumours, barest whispers rarely repeated, said she'd plucked out her eyes in offering to their Lord, her actions pleasing him so much he'd fashioned her new ones using the hearts of dragons.

As she enveloped him with them, he knew such stories were folly, the tales of her terrible deeds nothing but lies. Because as he gained the merest inkling of her majestic, dark power, he understood the truth lay far beyond what mortal tongues could whisper.

* * *

"I'll send you a note as soon as I dock. The Mages Guild in Westcastle, right?" Agronak nodded as he asked, trying to engage her, get her to spark a smile.

"Yes, that should be fine," Cerisse answered flatly, her mouth still stretched in the same false grin.

"_Irc!_" The angry call of the mer, hidden from view in the small cabin, could barely be heard over the plaintive cries of the seabirds and heavy thudding of the waves splashing into the shore.

"Coming!" Agronak bellowed towards the small ship, frustration fueling his volume. With a heavy sigh he turned back to Cerisse, pulling her close in a tight embrace. To his chagrin she reacted in that strange new habit of hers, squeezing him back with all of her strength, before slackening her hold to the barest of pressure, as if enduring rather than enjoying the touch. "You promise you'll come visit?"

"I promise to try," she replied in a mumbled monotone. It had grown worse in the last couple of days, their time together exploring the sights of Wayrest—the spectacular gardens teeming with flowers of every hue, the ancient cemetery filled with an overwhelming amount of history, and the confusing labyrinth, his sense of direction failing him every time—marred by her sudden withdrawal whenever he spoke of letters, visits, or his impending departure.

Today was the worst, the planned luxurious morning enjoying the benefits of their stay in the Queen's Hedgehog—the one with the good food—turning into a series of awkward moments and fumbling silences, the mood between them growing as grey and leaden as the skies overhead. The wind pried at them, sending the edges of their cloaks to flick angry lashes against their legs.

"I'd better go," he stated, letting his grip relax. Not that he wanted to go, dreading the return journey cramped into a ship, but they had to leave before the weather soured.

"Yes, you should," she mumbled, stepping back, letting him hold onto her limp hands, her false smile firmly affixed to her face, her eyes shrouding her emotions from view.

"Farewell, Cerisse. And thank you, for everything." As he took his leave of her, he decided not to kiss her, seized with the terrible premonition her lips would be as cold as the dark waters of the Bay. No, better to carry the memories of her warmth with him, to help while away the interminable hours at sea.

"Fare thee well, Agronak," she answered, voice stolen by the wind, her words coming to him as a distant whisper. Pulling her hands out of his, she stood expectantly on the weathered pier, waiting for him to go with that same horrible smile.

He walked down to the small boat, which would take them to their real transport, the captain refusing to dock her ship within sight of Wayrest without the benefit of covering fog or clouded night. As he stepped over the thick planks of the pier he occasionally glanced back at Cerisse, hoping for a wave, _something_, but she never moved, leaving him restless and confused.

"Finally. Let's get this floating scrap heap out of here," Synderius muttered, before shouting for the pilot of the boat to start the journey. He poked his head out of the cabin, then stepped out onto the deck, walking with easy movements over to join Agronak. "Don't worry, Irc, I'm sure I know what kept you so long. No apologies necessary."

Agronak didn't answer, instead loosing a throaty growl as he stared at the dock, eyes following Cerisse as she walked away without a backwards glance. She didn't even bother to watch him sail away.

"Ah," the mer murmured, realizing he said the wrong thing. Gamely, he tried to cheer Agronak up. "Yes, well, I'm going to miss Wayrest. Nothing like spending two days hiding indoors, pretending I don't know you, being tended to with the finest room service. I still don't know why you complained so much about The Dead Gnome. Fabulous establishment."

Agronak closed his eyes with a moan as a wave rocked the small boat, regretting what little breakfast he managed to choke down. Despite the leaden pit in his stomach, he felt strangely..._hollow_, like the staff he'd given to Synderius for keeping. He also had the plaguing sensation he'd forgotten something, left something important behind. All in all, he was in a foul mood.

The s'wit at his side, obliviously chatting away with a happy grin while resting lightly against the railing, did nothing to improve it. He gave Synderius his best warning glare, strongly considering pushing the mer overboard. At the moment, the idea of suffering through a sea journey alone was more appealing than doing it in the company of the Dunmer.

"Lighten up, Irc," Synderius coaxed, lightly tapping Agronak's side. "This was your vacation, remember? You should be relaxed, happy, cheerful."

Agronak paid no attention to the mer's attempts to raise his spirits, instead confused by the report of something hard having pressed into his side. One hand clutching the railing for balance, the other hand trying to get at the lump stuck in the lining of his cloak, he wasn't prepared for the sudden lurch as a wave rocked the boat. The motion pitched him heavily down to the deck as his fingers found something metallic hidden in the secret pocket of his cloak.

"B'Vehk, Irc, watch yourself," Synderius scolded, offering an arm to help up his friend. Except Agronak didn't move to stand, too bewildered by the presence of the very small, very _green_ ring between his fingers to do much more than stare at it.

"Oh, Irc, I'd say I was flattered, but...I'm not," Synderius laughed, resuming his position lounging against the railing. "You'll never be my type. Besides, I'm not the marrying kind."

"What in the hells are you talking about, you daft s'wit?" Agronak growled, shoving the little ring safely away in his pocket, before using the railing to pull himself back up.

"That's a ring," Synderius answered, giving Agronak a curious look as he stated the blatantly obvious. Nodding, he continued slowly, infuriatingly amused grin on his face. "Unless you're planning on selling it, or you've changed your mind about dallying with married women, there's only one reason for you to have a ring too small for you to wear."

"What are you going on about now?" Agronak demanded, seriously contemplating knocking the smile off the mer's face. His stomach did a back flip, causing him to moan softly. Damned boats.

"Even you must know there's only one reason to give a woman a ring," Synderius scoffed, mouth dropping open when he realized Agronak didn't know it. "You're joking! How you managed to survive Ilona I'll never understand. You never give a woman a ring unless you _mean_ to. The lovely creatures always think it's a promise, not a gift. Unless they're married, which is how you can tell who has the richest lovers—they wear the best rings."

Agronak leaned heavily on the railing, watching Wayrest jump up in down in his vision, suddenly far too aware of the small trinket in his pocket, and why it had been returned to him. No wonder Cerisse reacted so strangely to it. He didn't doubt she slipped it into the secret pocket because she felt she couldn't keep it. Damn—_now_ he understood why she'd never so much as tried it on.

Why didn't they teach important things like this in the Arena?

As Synderius prattled on, choosing to take the opportunity to lecture Agronak on the best—and worst—gifts to give women, he ignored the mer, thoughts centred on the little ring, and the reaction of his little nymph to it. She'd thought he was...and then he'd told her it was _green_...and that's when she'd become so...

Yes, he could have handled it a lot better. That was _not_ the best way to have given it to her.

With a heavy sigh, Agronak straightened up, undoing the fastenings of his scabbard. He handed the startled mer his sword with a grim nod. "Take care of this for me. And give Mrs. Palenix my regrets."

"Wait, Irc," Synderius grabbed Agronak's arm in a firm grip, "now, don't do anything foolish. It'll work out, okay? Let's go inside and talk about it..."

"No," he snarled, stepping back, tugging his arm out of the mer's reach. "There's only one way I can set it right."

"Listen, you've got so much going for you—don't throw your life away. I know it looks bad now, but it'll get better. Trust me," Synderius soothed carefully, slowly inching closer towards Agronak, preparing to tackle him to the deck.

"Take care of yourself, Synderius," Agronak stated to his friend, before closing his eyes and leaping over the railing.

"Damn it, Irc!" the mer shouted over the splash of the waves. "I never could keep you out of trouble..."

The words faded away, lost to sudden shock—he had no idea water could be so _cold_.

* * *

"Finally got rid of 'em, did you? Good riddance." Rhaerton paused in his wiping down of the counter—the only surface in the inn to ever receive such treatment—to nod at his new customer. "What can I get for you? Hot cider?"

"Strongest stuff you've got, dearie," Cerisse answered, trying to get her voice to crackle to match her appearance, finding it far too easy to do. She reached for some coins to pay the Redguard.

"This one's on me, kid," he said with gruff kindness, setting a large tumbler on what looked, at first glance, like a napkin—except his inn had never, nor would it ever, see one of those inside its walls. "You had a good run," he whispered to her, leaning over the counter, his stomach resting on the wood, "they appreciate it."

"Thanks," she managed to answer, heart sinking as she picked up her drink and the note underneath it. She knew it would come to this, knew no matter how well it ended, it would still have to _end_.

Only occasionally remembering to shamble, she made her way to the far booth in the corner, past the bleary eyed sailors who lived their lives in a perpetual haze, already drunk before the morning finished. Maybe they had the right idea.

Reading the note, she sipped her drink, the burning liquid stinging her eyes and making her cough. _Flin_. She'd never had the capacityable to handle the stuff. It was useful at times—for getting drunk very quickly, for drawing out the properties of certain ingredients, for faking potions...

Quickly taking another sip of the harsh drink, she chastised herself. Best not to think of that. Best not to think of anything. Not that she had anything she needed to think about. What was left? Her work with the Blades finished, the gracious letter from the "Order of Talos" thanking her for her years of selfless devotion and aid to the temple, signed with an illegible scrawl, only the _B_ decipherable.

She cackled bitterly into her cup, not caring if she startled anyone, certain they'd see nothing but a mad, old woman who'd had a bit too much to drink. Burning words echoed up to float through her mind, her sister's scathing comments forgiven, but not forgotten. Ria had no idea how deep she cut with her remarks, the phrases branded forever into her memory.

She lied when she told Ria nobody thought with fairytale minds. Wouldn't it surprise her little sister to find that Cerisse, her grumpy, stodgy, older sister did? She dreamed glorious tales of knights risking all for liege and love, selflessly devoting their lives for the benefit of others. She was no warrior, she'd known that as a child, but images of brave knights riding into battle, armour sparkling in the sunlight, kindness in their hearts had always enarmoured her.

So it had surprised her greatly to receive the invitation from the cunning Redguard in that nowhere town, in that nothing inn, to work with the secret defenders of the Empire, the most loyal and honourable Blades. Her entire world changed that night, the idealistic young woman emerging the next day a steel-eyed champion, righteous fire in her breast, justice in her palm.

Setting the clay tumbler on the sticky tabletop, she pulled one of her trailing shawls closer, fingers playing with the ragged fringe as she tried to console herself. No matter what she chose, it would have ended eventually, her usefulness as a source limited to her own source—that dashing scoundrel, the scandalous rogue.

Eddy—Edwistyr, she'd never called him anything but his proper name. She'd felt so surprised when he suddenly turned his twinkling eyes in her direction, flashed his dimpled smile, and proceeded to whisper the sweetest nothings ever spoken in her ear. Oh, how naïve she was, not understanding the poem about Hawkton women had begun to circulate, misunderstanding the reason for his interest. She was nothing but flattered, melting inside at the thought of the worst knave of Wayrest choosing to pursue _her_, dull, little Cerisse Hawkton, over all the other beauties at court.

Her fingers began to twirl the strands into knots as she laughed darkly to herself, recalling how lucky it was she wasn't _completely _naïve, all too aware of his reputation. Not wanting to tarnish her family's, she insisted on the deepest secrecy. It should have been a clue when he so eagerly agreed. Quite soon into their affair she began to suspect he had motives other than enjoying her physical charms, and was most chagrined by his pillow talk, scandalous tales of his cousin's doings coupled with vague hints of his current plots.

The worries about one plot in particular distracted her as she undertook what she thought was a simple task for the coven, delivering a cloak to a merchant in a nowhere town who'd sworn false promises to the witches. Belladyvyra's hints about how it would _transform his outer self to a semblance of his inner beauty_ hadn't sunk in. She made the delivery boldly at his shop, in front of a couple of clients. When he put it on to suddenly transform into a giant bat, she'd grown terrified, realizing her error.

The Goddesses smiled on her, leading her to Baurus' clever care in a nothing inn. After she learnt he was a Blade, the friendly Redguard earned her trust enough for her to confide her worries over Theodyrick's plots, in hopes he'd do something about them. Not only had he assured her he'd personally take care of the matter, he convinced her to send him any further information she could get, indoctrinating her in the world of secret codes and cryptic messages.

Edwistyr never knew when she turned the tables in their game, using him for her own purposes, rather than the other way around. It was always the same—a stolen night of secrecy, the man either drunk or well on his way, occasionally a simple potion to further loosen his tongue and ensure his memory remained clouded. Though never the potion when she had disinformation to feed him, her involvement with the Blades deepening in time.

It hadn't hurt he was so attractive, devastatingly charming when he chose to be. Though he'd aged faster than the passage of time, his lifestyle beginning to show in the puffy lids, the bloodshot eyes, the faint wrinkles. He'd also grown jaded, the charm wearing thin, the smiles running cruel.

Cerisse grabbed the _flin_, taking a large gulp as memories of their last meeting pressed in on her. He was drunk when she finally arrived, having ridden all day at a rough pace, girding herself to make the break. It had been so hard to leave (don't think of him)...she dreaded it, but she made her choice. Edwistyr luckily made it easier for her when he laid on the thickest, oiliest lines, presenting her with a horribly gaudy ring, a massive ruby set in a chunky gold band, the last thing she'd ever want to wear.

Marriage. The fool tried to convince her to _marry_ him. He must think her an _idiot_ to attempt _that_. She declined his offer with genuine conviction, her refusal earning the sharp side of his tongue, his insults and jeers so scathing her heart stung with them, a surprise considering how well she thought she'd barricaded it against him. After that there was no question of their continued affair. So really, it didn't matter she'd already chosen (don't think of him)...

She couldn't help thinking of him, unable to do anything but since he'd given her that _look_, claimed her with that _kiss_...she'd tried, Mara's tears, she'd tried. She'd fled Chesterbrugh, leaving him behind in the townhome, responding to Edwistyr's request for a meeting. But even with him hours away, she'd failed to banish him from her thoughts, his hands, his _lips_, the only thing she'd desired during that long night. By the morning she'd felt ill with guilt, as if she'd played the cheating harlot, though it hadn't been Edwistyr she felt she'd betrayed...

Cerisse squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force away the burning sting, caused not by the rough drink, but the fire slowly consuming her heart. _Kindled_. That's the term the witches used, too worldly to speak of simple notions such as love, instead dealing with the intense heat of passion, affairs of the heart ruled by the size of the flames. She'd denied it at first—to Belladyvyra, to herself, but the witch's warning words guided her actions nonetheless.

_Thou art blessed and cursed, child. Entwined as thou art with the forces of the world, thou must stay thy hand and thine words. Snare not a man by lures, for trapped he shalt surely become as the beasts, wild and ravening. Thou must be as the rose, patient and passive, waiting to be plucked. Thou must be chosen, child. All else shall end as ashes. This be the burden thou shalt bear on thine heart._

It wasn't the first time Belladyvyra said such words, the same warning given to her when she accepted the honour of becoming a _friend of the coven_, privy to spells and powers no lay person could learn. She paid it no mind back then, not thinking of such matters, having optimistic faith love would come find her, the fair damsel waiting for the shining knight.

She'd not realized at first since she cast herself in the role of the knight, she'd doomed herself to this loneliness, stuck here while (don't think of him)...

A traitorous tear broke free. She wiped it quickly away, to remove all traces of her weakness. Knights didn't cry. Not even the old knights, their armour rusted shut, their muscles softened with age, their skin thick with scars. No, those knights who served their liege and sacrificed their youth, who never found their fair damsel, didn't cry. They faded away, forgotten, living out the rest of their time in seedy taverns, boring the younger folk with tales of long dead colleagues as they tried in vain to relive the golden, glorious moments of their past. They waved meaningless tokens—a stained handkerchief, a dried rose, a tarnished locket—as they spoke of chivalrous love, pure and chaste, never consummated. If she was a knight, then that's what she would do. Not pine and weep as the forgotten damsel, but hold her head up as she drank herself into a numbing stupor in rundown bars.

As she already sat in the most rundown bar in Wayrest, it seemed like a good place to start. She took another stiff belt of the flin, finding the liquid slightly easier to swallow, having already burnt away her sense of taste. Her sense of smell still worked though, the salty scent of the waters of the bay remarkably strong today, perhaps due to the gusting winds. She could smell it, as if she was still standing on the pier, trapped into inaction by her foolish hopes, watching as (don't think on it)...

"Oh, no, not you again! I thought I got rid of you!" Rhaerton's angry shouts helped distract her from her thoughts. Cerisse listened as she stared into her flin, blowing on the clear liquid in bursts to create miniature waves in a tiny lake. "By the Rat God, I am _not_ cleaning that up! Look at that mess, are you going to..."

The Redguard's grumpy bellowing tapered off, whichever misbehaved sailor having somehow made amends, no easy task. Rhaerton did not give up grudges easily. Cerisse frowned into her flin, wondering why it suddenly stank so much like the docks. She even smelled the scent of rotting fish and mucilaginous seaweed, something she'd never cared for. Did flin heighten the sense of smell? She could always drink some more to see if it got better or worse.

"I never did buy you that ale." The rumbling voice, the grey hand holding a mug, and the massive, dripping body sliding onto the bench beside her startled her so much she squeaked, dropping the flin to puddle over the sticky table.

"What are you...why are you..." She couldn't think of which question to ask first, her thoughts a chaotic whirl as she resisted the temptation to poke him, just to make sure he was real, and not some flin-induced hallucination. She hadn't drunk that much of the stuff, had she?

"That's your ale, dearie," Agronak rumbled, nudging the mug closer to her, dripping bay water on to her skirt, assuring her he was real. "Enjoy it." He picked up his own mug and began to sip it thoughtfully, looking at the pitted table, reading the more colourful of the words carved into it.

Not sure what else to do, she grabbed the mug and took a big swig. Oh, yes, definitely real. One couldn't imagine up a taste quite like Rhaerton's finest ale.

"I was once asked," Agronak began to speak, talking to the empty wall in front of them, "if I could name a spot where my world changed. I can name several now." He paused for a sip, grimacing as he took the mug from his lips. He turned to look at Cerisse, setting her cheeks on fire as she caught sight of his warm eyes, making her hands shake as she clutched her mug, restraining her desire to grab him then never let go. "In this nothing inn, in this nowhere town, under the kitchen, when I placed myself in the hands of someone special. On the coast of Menevia, watching a wild woman kick up spray, when she offered me a choice. In the middle of a swamp, in a place outside of time, where she forever changed the way I saw the world."

Cerisse sipped her ale, too afraid to speak—too afraid to breathe—lest she break this hallucination...spell..._dream_.

"A wise man once told me of a perfect poem," he stated, before suddenly speaking in Orcish, repeating the line she grew up with. "_Love is_." Agronak chuckled, setting down his mug. "Damned if I know _what_ it is, but I do know this." He reached for her ale, carefully prising it out of her fingers, setting it beside his own as he held one of her hands. His other hand went to his pocket, squelching noises coming from his clothes as he shifted on the bench.

"I don't share," he grinned, pulling her hand closer, "and I can't go back, not unless you come with me. So I'm going to try this again, the right way, and see if we can't change each other's worlds." A familiar twinkle of green flashed out from his other hand, held between two strong fingers. "I don't have much to offer. My squirrels are fat, my friends are crazy, my gold's up in a tower somewhere, and my shoes are at the bottom of the Iliac Bay. But it's all yours, if you'll have me." He turned her hand palm up, pressing the wet ring into it. "Marry me, Cerisse."

Happy tears slipped onto her cheeks, blurring her vision as she looked at the prettiest ring she'd ever seen, given to her by the most amazing man she'd ever met. She sniffed, trying to regain her composure enough to answer, far too aware of how easily she could lose it completely.

"If you don't like it, I'll get you another...somehow," Agronak quickly offered, mistaking the reason for her reaction.

"I like it," she hastily assured him in a shaky voice, hiding the ring away in her clenched fist. "I love it." She could feel her mouth curling into a giant grin, such that she wondered if it would split her cheeks in two. Unable to resist any longer, she launched herself into him, holding him tight, heedless of the water and scent working into her clothes. "I love you. _Yes_, yes, a million times yes." She tilted her head up to kiss him, shocked when he pulled away with a grimace.

"You look..." he trailed off. She laughed, letting the years slip away, the shell of Morgolda sliding off her skin. "Ah, now there's my little nymph."

As he kissed her, pulling her close with his powerful arms, she felt her world change as her shoeless knight in soggy armour made her feel like the luckiest rose to ever be picked.


	35. Fond Farewells and Warm Memories

Stepping in to the empty foyer, Agronak glanced around, feeling distinctly awkward. He'd been welcomed here several times before, but only as a guest. Hopefully they wouldn't change their attitudes about him when they learnt of his plans to become one of them in a more permanent way...

Cerisse gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as the light tread from the upper hallway reached his ears. Ah, well, he'd learn the truth of it soon enough.

"Reesy!" Evie's happy welcome burst through the air as she bustled down the staircase. "You're back already. And you've brought Agronak to visit again." She turned her smile to her visitor. "I thought you were leaving us to return home. I'm glad you've stayed on, it is ever so nice to have company..._oh_." For the first time, Agronak witnessed a remarkable sight—Evie falling silent as her lips twitched, the poor woman trying hard to suppress a smile and a flurry of questions as she stared at her daughter's dainty hand enveloped in his massive grey one.

"Mama," Cerisse quickly spoke as she tugged her hand away, taking advantage of the unnatural pause in her mother's usual banter, "where's Papa? There's something I need to discuss with both of you."

"Oh?" Evie couldn't help asking, though she managed to restrain her follow up questions. Her eyes glittered as her eyebrow arched and her mouth curled in—now he knew where Cerisse got that habit from. "He's in his study. Let me go fetch him." She broke out into a grin before stalking off down the hallway, her quiet calls to Alabyval becoming strident and demanding as soon as she turned the corridor.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about Mama's opinion," Cerisse whispered to him, giving Agronak a relieved smile. He tilted her chin up, preparing to kiss her, but a friendly voice in greeting halted the motion. He stepped away from her, under the impression she wasn't very comfortable with much physical contact around her family until this was all sorted out.

"Well stick a collar on me and call me a _pahmar-raht_,"a young man—yet another Hawkton, judging by his resemblance to Alabyval—hailed as he stepped out of the library. "If it isn't the Grey Prince himself in our entranceway. Ri Ri said you'd left High Rock."

"Mordy!" Cerisse ran over to greet her brother with a hug. "You're back from Elsweyr! Did you get those shipping agreements settled?" Suddenly recalling the rules of politeness, she waved a hand over to Agronak while tugging her brother's arm, pulling him down the hall. "Let me introduce you. This is Lord Lovidicus, Agronak gro-Malog, of Crowhaven." Turning to Agronak, she nodded over to her sibling. "This is Mordistyr, the middle brother."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Agronak offered, shaking the man's hand. He wondered if Mordistyr didn't look exactly like Alabyval had decades ago—the resemblance was uncanny. Though unlike his father the young man's skin was deeply tanned from days spent at sea, sun scorching flesh from both above and below as it reflected off vast stretches of water.

"Good to meet you. Y'know, I saw you fight years ago," Mordistyr stated before looking to Cerisse. "Reesy, you wouldn't believe how fast he can move. He's amazing to see in action."

"Really?" Cerisse murmured, winking conspiratorially at Agronak.

Mordistyr didn't notice, having turned back to Agronak. "Wish I'd known how true the rumours were. Wouldn't have bet on that other fellow," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "I saw you a second time, but you weren't fighting. I was in Cyrodiil when they announced your retirement—managed to get a seat at the battle for the new grand champion." The Breton snorted, shaking his head, a couple of curly tendrils escaping from his ribbon to bounce with the movement. "Still can't believe that weirdly-armoured woman won with a _staff_. Everyone was sure it would've been the Nord."

"Everyone didn't know I'd been helping her train for weeks," Agronak stated, a little smug. Good thing too—he was sure Lilia wouldn't have survived without his pointers. Sometimes he wondered how she'd done as well in the Arena as she had before he and Synderius stepped in. She had some skill, true, but she had the _oddest_ methods of fighting...

"Really? So you know her real name? And don't tell me about that ridiculous rumour of her being our Empress, because that's just..._no_," Mordistyr gasped as he correctly interpreted Agronak's amused smirk. "Can't be. I've seen her in passing a few times, but she always looked so...regal. The hair's the same colour, but she can't really be the same person—I mean, that armour she wore, not a piece matched..." he trailed off as he thought about the concept, a chuckle escaping him. "Good thing she doesn't still carry around that _ugly_ staff."

"She's just got a new one, much more appropriate," Agronak murmured, noting Cerisse cover up her snicker with a pretend cough.

"Ah, well, who's the new grand champion now? Last I heard it was some woman out of Leyawiin with a thing for axes." Mordistyr swiped the air as he mimed two axes slicing through opponents.

"Really? I'd heard it was a little Bosmer fellow with orange hair," Gondyn stated as he walked down the hall. "I remember because he sounds like somebody I once met." He drew near, made a show of looking Agronak up and down, then spoke with one his eyebrow wiggles. "You're back. Again. I don't see any roots coming out of your shoes, so that doesn't explain why we can't get rid of you. Nice shoes, by the way. Another new pair? You're almost as bad as Ri Ri..."

"Dyn," Cerisse warned, her lips curled up with delight. "Behave."

"Reesy, have you not paid the poor man in anything but shoes yet? Mara's mercy, let him go home already. Just because you...hey!" Gondyn dodged out of the way of her darting fingers, narrowly avoiding a tickle. "Too slow...oh, _damn_!" Unfortunately for him his movements brought him within reach of his brother, the nimble man, with a speed and strength Agronak didn't doubt came from hours spent climbing ropes and dodging wayward cargo during storms, grabbing Gondyn in a modified head lock.

With her quarry captive, Cerisse began to tickle him mercilessly. "It's good to have you back, Mordy," she said loudly, over Gondyn's gasping laughter. "Dyn's been a complete _jekosiit_ since you left."

"Cerisse Hawkton, what have I told you about using such language?" Alabyval asked, the hall falling silent as Mordistyr (reluctantly) let Gondyn go.

"If I'm going to swear, do it right," Cerisse answered with a sigh.

"Exactly," Alabyval nodded, stamping his cane for emphasis. "Remember, the _je_- part should sound rough, like you're coughing out the slur—"

"Dear," Evie interrupted as she tugged on her husband's arm. "You'll have plenty of time to discuss that later. There's something Reesy had to tell us." She beamed over at her daughter.

Cerisse frowned, looking between her brothers—Gondyn raising an eyebrow at her, Mordistyr contemplating her with a stern expression—before pointing towards a near door. "In private, Mama."

"Ah, yes, of course," Evie chirped, waving a hand at her sons. "Boys, if you're going to wrestle, go do it outside. You know it's not allowed near the sculptures."

"C'mon, I know Ri Ri'll be delighted to see you again," Mordistyr called to Agronak, pointing in the direction of the back door.

"No," Cerisse stammered, slight blush creeping onto her face as she grew flustered, "I need him for a moment first."

"It's alright, Mordy," Gondyn muttered, giving his brother a slightly too firm pat on the arm, "he knows where to find us. Let me show you the newest changes to the _garden_."

"Right, the _garden_," Mordistyr replied. Their use of the word, tainted with a hint of conspiracy, set Agronak on edge. One Hawkton brother was bad enough, but two? He wasn't sure if the mischief would simply add together, or even worse, _multiply_.

"Dear, why are you pushing me?" Alabyval complained as the brothers walked away down the hall, leaving the remainder of them to adjourn to the salon. Or was it the parlour? Other than the library that didn't look like a library, Agronak always got the names of the rooms confused.

It took a moment for them to get settled on opposing settees, Alabyval growing increasingly frustrated with Evie's flurry of _helpful_ pressures as she tried to make him move faster. Agronak didn't appreciate her nervous excitement—while he had a good idea of her opinions on the matter, he wasn't sure what Alabyval would have to say. Irritating the man before they got a chance to speak wouldn't make it easier if he had any reservations.

"Now, Reesy, what did you have to tell us?" Evie asked, grabbing Alabyval's hand to somehow pat, rub, and squeeze it at once. The woman never did seem to do only one thing at a time—except when it came to her art.

"Mama, Papa," Cerisse began hesitantly, nodding at Evie and then Alabyval, "I've got something to say. It may be a bit of a surprise." She paused when Alabyval dryly raised his eyebrows at her, clearly expecting something unpleasant, before plunging in. "I..._we_," Cerisse reached over to lace her fingers in Agronak's, "are getting married."

Evie's twitters of delight were drowned out by the shriek from the window, Ria's head popping into view as she let out a high-pitched squeal of happiness. Gondyn's and Mordistyr's mildly guilty-looking faces soon joined hers. Agronak ruefully noted Gondyn's eyebrows were wiggling so much he expected they'd crawl right off his forehead.

As her siblings began calling out congratulations while they took turns clambering through the window, and Evie commenced a torrent of talk about the plans and arrangements for the upcoming festivities, Cerisse lowered her head with a mild groan, covering her face with her free hand. "Dibella's grace, does no one in this family know how to behave?"

"Am I not a member?" Alabyval's tone—serious, commanding, and incredibly fatherly—brought instant quiet to the room. Ria, who'd slunk in first, hushed her gushing, slowly relinquishing Cerisse from her enthusiastic hugs as she sat down quietly next to her sister. Mordistyr straightened up from his bent position helping his brother through the window, leaving a surprised Gondyn to slip awkwardly to the floor with a muffled thud. Even Evie quieted, though Agronak could see it was a silence that wouldn't last, her lips already twitching as she prepared to cajole, sweet-talk, or agree, depending on what her husband said next.

"Lord Hawkton," Agronak spoke, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, "I love your daughter. I promise I wish nothing but to bring her happiness for the rest of her days." He nodded at the Breton, making sure he had the man's full attention, before continuing. "I hope you'll support the match, but know that I _will_ marry her, no matter what obstacles present themselves."

Cerisse gaped along with the rest of her family, the group of them surprised at Agronak's boldness. Alabyval merely returned the stare for a while, his face impassive, his expression unreadable. Suddenly a large smile broke through as he laughed, a contented sound launched from deep down in the belly. "Agronak, there are many things I thought of you when I met you, and many more I've come to think since I've known you. At no time did I ever think you a coward. As far as my feelings about you marring my Reesy, I'm _delighted_," he suddenly slipped in the Orcish word.

Ria swooned as she murmured about romance and true love, while the brothers hastily provided the rough translation—Alabyval approved—to clear up Evie's confusion. She started to sniffle, more so when Cerisse flashed her little green ring, earning loud comments from Ria about how symbolic it was that is was Orcish, what with Agronak being part Orc, and how he'd even chosen Cerisse's favourite stone, an emerald (he briefly pondered claiming credit for such cleverness, as it sounded far more meaningful than explaining he'd chosen it because it was so very _green_).

As the women began to speak of plans for the wedding—suggestions for dates, food, and potential guests streaming out of Evie and Ria to pour over Cerisse—Alabyval caught Agronak's eye. "Come, let's go to my study. We'll leave them to their fun."

Leaving Cerisse after giving her hand a squeeze—as he didn't feel much like giving her a kiss in front of five intently watching pairs of eyes—Agronak adjourned with the men to Alabyval's sanctuary. As the Breton poured out a measure of sherry for each of them, Gondyn and Mordistyr arranged chairs for them all near the fire.

Once comfortably settled in, with Morag's feathery tail flopped across his feet, drink in hand, and congratulations gruffly given, Alabyval leaned forward in his chair to stare Agronak straight in the eye. "Agronak, what I'm about to tell you is something known only to the men of the Hawkton family. Heed it carefully, and you will always be happy." He glanced over to his sons. "You'd do well to pay attention."

Mordistyr reached over to smack Gondyn lightly on the shoulder, trying to get his brother to stop petting Dar long enough to listen properly.

"There are many things they say will guarantee marital bliss—flowers, gifts, hiring a maid—but it boils down to one simple thing." Alabyval pointed at Agronak, his eyes dancing with delight. "And do you know what that is?"

"A study?" Agronak guessed, recalling the advice he'd received in Tamborne.

Alabyval's jaw dropped open, his brow furrowing as he gaped at Agronak. "You...how..." he suddenly grimaced, taking a sip of his drink, before lightly asking a question. "Did Rodyrick tell you?"

Seeing no way around it, Agronak nodded sheepishly, a bit chagrined he'd already managed to get his future brother-in-law in trouble.

"Maybe we should send him the _map_," Gondyn whispered to his brother as Alabyval sighed into his drink, wryly amused smile on his face. At least he didn't seem too angry.

Mordistyr quickly shook his head, dismissing the idea. "You do that, and you'll have to face Cyovta's wrath for sending that git to her door."

"Right," Gondyn muttered as he snapped his fingers, "that's why we never sent it to him in the first place. Hmm, maybe wives _are_ good for something after all."

* * *

"Now Mordy, you know it's not that fast," Ria gently scolded her brother from her comfortable spot on the rug, fingers plucking a jaunty little tune on her lute. Agronak hadn't heard her play before, and though she claimed to be rather rusty, he felt her to be quite skilled. "Look at Roddy and Cyovta."

"What's to look at?" Mordistyr replied, arching his brow as he settled further back into his chair. "He was sent to meet a supplier in the A'likr. Not only did he manage to offend the man, ruining months of negotiations, but he wound up bringing back a wife, ending his career before it'd barely begun."

Ria frowned as she strummed an off-key chord, before quickly repositioning her fingers to create a more melodic sound. "You make it sound like a bad thing," she protested. "It's incredibly romantic. Love at first sight in the foothills of the Dragontails." Smiling over to Agronak, light of the fire highlighting her in a rosy glow, she asked him a question. "It was love at first sight for you, wasn't it?"

Cerisse snickered from her spot on the other side of the fireplace, laying flat on the rug, the same Ta'agra novel propped up in her hands. She seized the opportunity to ignore the page she struggled with to look over at Agronak. "Don't even try to say it was."

"Oh?" he inquired with a grin. "What makes you think it wasn't?"

"Because if it was," she replied flatly, "then you wouldn't have been so rude. Or so grumpy. You didn't even smile until we hit the mountains."

"You weren't exactly the friendliest thing to ride with," he teased gently, waving at her book. "You did nothing but read."

"Better get used to it, Ags," Gondyn advised from the settee he'd claimed, stretching across the length of it, pillow propped behind his head, eyes closed. "Reesy's a dull one when she's not witching about."

"It's _Ag-ro-nak_," he growled, discouraging yet another nickname from the young man. Grudgingly he'd accepted Ria wouldn't call him anything other than Aggy, not after he'd invited her to, but that didn't mean he'd accept it from everyone else. So far Gondyn had tried Aggy, Nak, and in a fit of flippancy, _Agrocakes_. That one had been vetoed not only by him, but Mordistyr, who'd been very appalled to hear his brother use such a ridiculous name.

"Still, it seems awfully quick," Mordistyr murmured, eyes glancing between Agronak and Cerisse. "I travel to Elsweyr, then come back to find my baby sister _engaged_."

"I'm your baby sister," Ria corrected.

"No, Ri Ri," he grinned at her, "you're the _baby_."

Abandoning her lute to steal the little pillow from beneath Gondyn's head, causing the man to open his eyes with a start as his head fell down to the cushion, Ria launched it at Mordistyr. He caught it with a laugh, then let out another when he noticed Gondyn's outstretched arm awaiting the return of his pilfered pillow. With a contented smile, Mordistyr tucked it behind his head as he settled back into his chair.

"When are you going back to Elsweyr?" Gondyn grumped, shifting around on the settee as he tried to get comfortable again. "Tell me it's tomorrow."

"Oh no, I'm not going anywhere for a while. With my luck I'll get back to find you marrying a carnivorous Bosmer who squeaks." Mordistyr lightly shook his head, curls crushed against the pillow. "Or a Telvanni. Or, Dibella forbid, a cousin of Elysana's."

"Ugh, don't even say things like that." Gondyn stuck his tongue out at the thought. "Having to spend time at court, with all that gossip, and all that _nattering_. Do they do anything besides talk, talk, talk?"

"Don't mind Dyn," Cerisse advised Agronak with a grin. "He has no concept of irony."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gondyn asked, regarding Cerisse with narrowed eyes.

"Means you're daft," Mordistyr answered for her, "and don't realize you natter more than the lot of them combined."

"This close," Gondyn snarled, holding his fingers a tiny distance apart. "You're this close to me showing you what _Aggykins_ taught me while you were gone."

"It's _Agronak_," he rumbled, leaning forward as he interrupted the conversation, "I'd suggest you remember that, unless you want me to _teach_ you not to forget it." His knuckles cracked as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Oh, good, it's so nice to see you all getting along," Evie's happy voice floated in from the doorway. She entered the room, trailed by Alabyval and the hounds. With a scold to sit up straight, and a gentle demand for him to scooch over, she settled herself next to Gondyn on the settee. "I've written everyone about the good news. It will be so nice when Roddy comes to visit tomorrow. I hope he brings the family—oh my, we're getting another member." She pressed her hand to her chest as she beamed at Agronak. "It's ever so exciting. Just wait until you meet the aunts and uncles. And the cousins—you'll not be the first Orc marrying into the Hawkton clan. Of course there's also my side...I know, I'll find you a copy of our family tree tomorrow, so you'll know who is who when they start arriving for the wedding—"

"Dear," Alabyval gently called to her as he stepped across the rug, "I thought we had an agreement."

"I wasn't talking about the _thing_," Evie breezily answered, "I was talking about the families. We really should get Agronak familiar with their names before he meets them at the _thing_." She glanced over at Agronak, a sympathetic smile on her face. "It's a shame you won't have many from your side joining us for the _thing_. Isn't there anyone else you can invite who could come out? Though it is a bit far," a shadow of hesitation held her words in a minute pause, before she carried on with some delicacy, "so perhaps you shouldn't worry about inviting the Emperor and Empress..."

"Lilia would have my head if I didn't invite her," Agronak interrupted in an attempt to reassure Evie she wouldn't be committing a highly embarrassing faux pas by extending an invite to the rulers of the Empire for a minor noble's wedding. He found when he called them by their names—which they both insisted on whenever they weren't bound otherwise by formality—it helped convince Evie he really was good friends with them.

And he didn't doubt Lilia's wrath would far surpass anything he'd seen from Ysabel if he failed to give her the opportunity to attend. Even if by Synderius' account she soon wouldn't be able to do much travelling at all, given her continuously growing condition.

"Really?" she twittered, somewhat flustered at the possibility they might attend. "Well, if there's a chance we'll be entertaining the Emperor, maybe we should reconsider the menu. Reesy, what do you think about adding some foreign dishes, something a bit more exotic? I've heard they're both partial to Elsweyran cooking..."

"Evie," Alabyval leaned over from his spot next to his wife, gently pressing his finger to her lips. "You're doing it again. Remember, no more wedding talk until tomorrow." Satisfied she'd stop—at least for a time being—he placed his hand on her back to rub soft circles up and down her spine. He addressed the room in general. "What were you kids talking about before? That would be better than discussions about the you-know-what."

"Mordy was just telling us he doesn't believe in love at first sight," Ria stated lightly, her eyes flashing a message of triumph at her older brother.

"Mordistyr!" Alabyval scolded, frowning at his son. "I thought we raised you to know better than that."

"That's not what I was saying, Papa," Mordistyr answered, giving Ria a dark look. She smiled smugly before pointedly ignoring him as she plucked at her lute. "I was expressing my surprise at finding Reesy engaged after such a short time."

"Short time?" Evie blinked, surprised at the statement. "They've known each other, what, almost a month? That's four times longer than it took for your father to propose. And look at Roddy—he met and married Cyovta within a fortnight."

"You might not know this," Mordistyr said dryly, "but in other families they don't marry off quite so quickly as ours. There's a quaint custom they have, called _courtship_. Maybe I should get my siblings to try it sometime."

"Been there, tried that, won't do it again," Ria snapped, discordant twang vibrating from the lute strings. She sighed, head shaking away the painful memories. "No, Hawktons are destined to love fast and true. If it moves too slow it isn't meant to be."

"Ri Ri, it works perfectly well for many others..." Mordistyr began saying.

"_Love is_," Gondyn quoted in Orcish as he stood, escaping his mother's gentle ministrations as she attempted to smooth his perpetually ruffled hair. "You're arguing a losing side, Mordy. No Hawkton would dare disagree with the idea." Moving to perch on Agronak's armrest, reconsidering at the crack of knuckles, Gondyn hesitated a moment, before plopping himself down on the rug in between his sisters. He strummed a finger over Ria's lute strings, earning a glare from her, before snatching Cerisse's book from her side and flipping to a random page. She didn't protest the loss, having abandoned her attempts at reading it for the evening.

"I'd hope not," Alabyval added with a smile, "because if it wasn't true none of you would be here today. Well, Agronak would be, but he certainly wouldn't be sitting here in my salon."

"Tell him why, Papa," Ria pleaded when she noticed Agronak's confusion. "He hasn't heard the story of how you met Mama." Turning to look over at Agronak, he noticed her wearing what he thought of as her 'swooning' face—the one she wore whenever anything remotely resembling the topic of love was discussed. "It's so romantic."

Mordistyr snorted, while Gondyn buried his nose deeper into Cerisse's book. At Cerisse's nod, and Agronak's polite request to hear the details, Alabyval began his tale, paying no heed to his sons' pointed ignorance of his words. "There's not much to tell. I used to sail with the company's ships—this you know. One sudden bad storm destroyed my ship and shattered my knee. I washed up on the coast of Menevia, and when I woke up, the world had changed."

"How?" Agronak asked, wondering what the man referred to. "Evie found you?"

"Oh, no, but that would have been very sweet," Evie chirped, patting Alabyval's knee.

"It means my life, as I'd known it, would never be the same," he answered, the hand on Evie's back slowing. "I'd spent years travelling the Empire, from the Summerset Isles to Vvardenfell, but with the damage done to my leg when the mast hit, there was no way I'd be able to crew a ship again. Do you know how hard it is to walk above deck with a cane?" Alabyval ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair as he let out a tired sigh. "It wasn't an easy thing to accept, at first. Didn't help I was stuck in Chesterbrugh, far from family, at the mercy of some less than skilled healers."

"You're exaggerating, dear," Evie lightly scolded. "They were inexperienced, not incompetent."

"Either way, my knee never stopped hurting." Alabyval resumed the stroking of Evie's back, a smile creeping over his face. "Good thing, too, or else they wouldn't have bundled me up, stuck me in a wagon, and sent me off to the chapel in Tamborne."

"You wouldn't have recognized him back then," Evie added, unable to resist providing further details to her husband's tale. "Scruffy, scrawny, with skin tanned like amber. Nothing at all to look at."

"In other words, he looked just like Mordy," Gondyn, suddenly listening to the conversation again, winked over to Agronak. His words evoked a growl from his brother, as well as a rough toss of the small pillow. Catching it with a smirk, Gondyn resettled himself, lying on his back with his head near the fire, pillow tucked below, book propped up in his arms. He appeared decidedly comfortable.

"But you," Alabyval murmured, admiring Evie as he ignored the antics of his sons, "were enough to stop any man's heart." She blushed, muttering gentle disavowals of his generous praise. Alabyval looked back to Agronak as he resumed his tale. "The moment I saw her, I knew she was the woman I'd marry. Too bad I didn't know her name."

"So he stalked me," Evie explained with a smile.

"Followed you," Alabyval corrected. "I followed you back to the finest home in Tamborne, limping as quickly as I could to keep up. You went in the front door, then you didn't come out."

"I was sick." Evie's gentle protests were made to Agronak as she justified her side, the soft words ones she'd repeated throughout the years. "Spent three days in bed with a touch of the collywobbles."

"Every one of those days I waited from dawn until dusk, hoping to catch another glimpse of her, perhaps speak to her," Alabyval admitted.

"The servants thought he was homeless. Do you remember when the cook sent Marie out with a bowl of stew?"

"Very well, dear," her husband quickly replied with a chuckle. "It was the first hot meal I'd eaten since I fell in love with you." He turned back to his future son-in-law. "You've seen the grounds in Tamborne. There used to be a thick hedge behind the fence, only the gate allowing a glimpse into the yard. On the fourth day I took up my usual spot in the only patch of sunlight in that dark street, fully prepared for another uneventful day. Imagine my surprise when I heard the sweetest voice, translating a tender love letter into fluent Aldmeris. As I listened, I grew convinced she was writing it for me."

"I thought you didn't speak anything besides Common," Agronak asked Evie, perplexed by Alabyval's narrative.

"I don't," she answered with a happy laugh. "That was my tutor, desperately trying to find some way to make me interested in languages. It didn't work—I was much too occupied with sketching a freshly bloomed rose to pay attention."

"Those damn bushes," Alabyval muttered as he took up his tale. "The idea she was writing to me—ridiculous as it was—combined with the days of waiting, made me reckless. I wanted so badly to see her, I tried climbing up the fence, hoping to peer over the top."

"But your knee..." Agronak pointed out.

"Made it impossible, yes," Alabyval admitted with a grin. "I ended up swearing up a storm, fortunately in everything but Common, as I struggled. After a while I gave up, deciding to try getting a glimpse of her through the gate. So I stepped towards it at full speed without watching where I was going—"

"Knocking me right off my feet," Evie interrupted. "I was on my way to visit my friend when he tripped me."

"Accidentally, dear," Alabyval sighed lightly, this part of the story one he'd qualified many times before. "And I did try to help you right back up."

"So you claim," she gently teased, patting her husband's hand, "but I distinctly remember you falling on me instead."

"Knee gave out."

"Whatever happened, I ended up helping _you_ up." Evie kissed Alabyval, earning a happy sigh from Ria, and an eye roll from Mordistyr. "Then taking you back to the chapel. I never did make it to my friend's house."

"You fell for me just like I fell for you," he said, kissing her in return.

"Fell _on_ her," Gondyn muttered under his breath, adjusting his book to hide his parents from his view.

"He finally proposed three days later—three unnecessary days later." Evie grinned at Agronak, before kissing Alabyval on the cheek. She then whispered something in his ear, punctuating her quiet words with a meaningful giggle that made Mordistyr visibly cringe.

"So, you see, love at first sight is real," Alabyval hastily summarized as he grabbed his cane. He planted it firmly on the floor, rising off the furniture with Evie clinging to his arm as she helped. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we're off to bed. Goodnight."

After a round of polite words, Evie and Alabyval left the room, Alabyval for some reason ordering the hounds to remain behind. Ria's gleeful murmurs about her parent's romantic tale were met with scathing calls from her brothers to _stop_ talking about it. She finally quited down with a huff, pout on her face as she fiddled with her lute.

"Reesy," Gondyn suddenly exclaimed, pulling the book close to his face, before stretching his arms out as far as possible, as if he couldn't quite focus on the words, "where did you get this book?"

"Give it back, Dyn," Cerisse demanded, scrambling to snatch it out of his hands. But he rolled away too quickly, clutching it to his chest, preventing her plan from succeeding.

"Oh, no, not until I've finished reading it." Popping up from the rug, he quickly walked over to the other side of the settee, putting the piece of furniture between him and his sister, his eyebrows rising up and down as he wagged his finger at her. "I've never seen one of these before. I didn't even know they wrote this kind of thing in Ta'agra."

"Dyn," Cerisse's word held a dark warning, but the brilliant flush of embarrassment on her cheeks somewhat mitigated the intimidating effect.

"What is it? I've brought Papa back a whole crateload of Ta'agra books—whatever it is, I'm sure I've got more of the same," Mordistyr called, leaning over the armrest of his chair as he twisted to look at the cover.

"I somehow doubt that," Gondyn quickly replied, side-stepping around the settee, eyes locked on Cerisse as he attempted to keep her safely on the other side of the furniture. "I don't think you bought Papa an erotic novel starring a couple of carnivorous Bosmers." He chuckled at Cerisse's furious growl of frustration. "Rather clever, the way they substitute whipped cream for regular things like strawberries—at least there isn't any references about certain lengths of _meat_..."

With a yelp, Gondyn fled to the doorway, suddenly aware he was being pursued not by Cerisse, but her two incredulous siblings. Ria and Mordistyr called strategy to each other as they ran after him, intent on getting their hands on this most illicit of prizes.

"Bosmers, eh?" Agronak teased as he stood up. "If I'd known you liked that kind of story, I would've bought you a novel instead of a ring. The jeweler's wife had one written in Orcish, about a warlord and a Breton serving wench..."

"Good thing you didn't get me that one," she answered with a purr. "I've already got two copies."

"Really?" He scooped her up, feeling her feet brush against his calves as they dangled in the air. "I take it that's your favourite?"

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as she kissed him, warmth of her touch igniting an entirely different kind of warmth within him. "Nah," she whispered when she pulled her lips out of reach. "It's the one about the Orcperial and the nymph. Would you like me to tell you what happens in that one?"

With a chuckle, he set her feet on the ground. He followed along behind her, holding on to her hand, letting her lead the way. He had a suspicion she would find them a quiet spot—a hidden spot—where she could safely share the tale. Hopefully she'd need a bit of audience participation...


	36. Ordering Other Lord Lovidicus Guidebooks

The sickly sweet scent hit his nose first, the aroma of dragon's breath conjuring so many pleasant, hazy memories of well-wasted evenings. He smiled as he inhaled, before frowning sharply, frustrated he could enjoy none of those pleasures for the moment. Once this was over, he had a lot of catching up to do.

Edwistyr pushed open the door to the low class establishment on the coast of Lainlyn—The Toad and Ogre Tavern—with a grimace, displeased at the sweat laden heat, the dank gloom, and the tuneless drunken singing of a bawdy song about a very sinful rogue. This was not the sort of place he cared to frequent, at least, not unless he had the right kind of company to go along with it.

He stepped in, moving quickly to the side to avoid crashing into a giggling serving wench, wondering how it had come to this. Somehow everything in his life suddenly _changed_, almost as if the world turned upside-down in the span of a few missing hours. He instinctively touched the back of his head, reassuring himself of the smooth flesh underneath the tousled waves, no bump to be found.

He still had no idea how he'd come to wake up lying in the salon in Wickton Manor, his head aching beyond any hangover. He had only the vaguest recollection of meeting with Cerisse, the proposal not going well, and then...he woke up in immense pain on the tiled floor of his cousin's country estate. That was the first memory he had, the start of this strange sequence of events.

Straightening his clothes, he moved further into the throng, glancing around in search of his contact. With every grey head he saw he couldn't help looking twice, wondering if luck would deliver him next to Theodyrick. The man's chamberlain was just as perplexed as Edwistyr as to what had happened to his cousin. According to the ugly fellow, his master had gone out in a rush, leaving no instructions as to his expected return. Edwistyr waited a week in the quiet old house, the first couple of days in a painful fog of recovery, fully anticipating Theodyrick to walk in at any moment, snapping out commands in his grumpy voice in preparation to return to Wayrest.

Except he never came back, instead the very dangerous looking agents of the bank showing up at the front door, inquiring about Lord Wickton, wishing to discuss some irregularities in his accounts. Edwistyr, passing himself off as a dimwitted servant, managed to send them away. Mildly concerned his irregularities were the cause of the questions he'd left under cover of night, journeying to Wayrest in hopes of finding further information there.

He spent his time moving over pitted roads, staying in lousy inns, thoroughly exhausted by the time he reached home, glad things would return to normal. Only they hadn't, nobody having heard a word about Theodyrick, his cousin's townhouse cold and empty. Returning to his own place he caught sight of the waiting men—big, brutish, and unmistakably in the employ of bankers—lurking near the front door. In the only piece of luck he had since waking up with a head full of pain, he managed to avoid them, turning to his many _friends_ for a place to sleep and a way to keep out of sight.

His gold running out, his friends' patience wearing thin, he finally broke into Theodyrick's townhome, looking for something valuable to sell, as well as any hints as to where his cousin had disappeared. Sitting on the table in the entranceway, under a vase of dried, rotten flowers, he found answers to one half of the puzzle.

Ysausa, that unassuming woman, had left a scathing note for her husband, written just after his departure from Wayrest. While her tales of her affair with her decorator—as well as details of her clever schemes to siphon off their gold in payment to said decorator before running off with him, leaving Theodyrick alone, broke, with nothing but the ugliest home in Wayrest in consolation—were entertaining, they hadn't helped Edwistyr in the slightest. Though he had to admit he felt a grudging respect for the woman as he put the note back, surprised by her ability to come up with such a devious scheme. Perhaps she hadn't been colourblind after all.

A beautiful Redguard walked by, catching his eye, bringing an admiring smile to his lips. It was always the women in his life who turned out to be the most helpful, one of his married lovers providing him with a way to escape his predicament, pointing him in the direction of a rundown tavern near the docks of Wayrest, a place it was rumoured could make a man _disappear_. By that point it was the only option he could see, other than ending up languishing in prison for debts, so he quickly pursued it. The grumpy Redguard running the place hadn't proved very friendly, but he agreed to help for a surprisingly small amount of gold.

After an eternity waiting in a cramped cellar, then carefully smuggled across the bay in a cramped boat, Edwistyr finally arrived in Morilliton, to come under the care of another Redguard. This man complained bitterly the entire wagon ride about how much he hated to wait. With some terse instructions and a distinct lack of patience he deposited Edwistyr here, at this pit of a tavern in Syrrallao, a dive of a port town. Now, to find this captain, and discuss passage to Morrowind. Edwistyr had a cousin there, on his mother's side, who was doing rather well for himself. With a little help, and the acquaintanceship of some new _friends_, he was sure he'd be back on his feet in no time. Maybe he'd even get to find out if what they said about Dunmeri women was true...

Stopping in his tracks, trying hard not to think about why the floor beneath his shoes felt _sticky_, he gaped at the spectacle beside him. A shirtless Dark Elf, eyes closed as if in meditation, sat in a near booth. His companion, a remarkably curvy Bosmer...Bosmerish creature—as the Wood Elves neither possessed such ample charms, nor such delicate features—occupied herself in the most unusual way. She held a caliper, of all things, to the Dunmer's lower lip, tugging it forward to expose the sensitive inner flesh, her delightfully pink tongue tracing sensual patterns on it as she murmured seductively.

Sensing Edwistyr's curious gaze she turned her face towards him, staring boldly at him as she continued her ministrations on the mer. Her shift in position pulled the Dunmer from his trance, the mer easing his lips away from her floral-painted calipers to glare menacingly, the faintest of growls escaping his throat.

"Hey there, sunshine. Something I can help you with?" the mer of questionable pedigree called out as she sank back down into her seat, the movement revealing an absence of _arm_ on her other side where she leant into the Dunmer. She certainly had Bosmer in her, her ears long and tapered, extending far from her head. Several piercings rattled in the tips, a scandalous detail Edwistyr couldn't help noticing, especially when the Dunmer suddenly snapped forward, tugging on one with his teeth, eliciting a throaty gasp from the wanton creature by his side.

"There might be," Edwistyr answered, slipping onto the bench across from them, giving her his most charming smile. He tried hard to ignore the intense dislike in the Dunmer's eye, the mer rather intimidating to behold, with the circle of scars on his stomach, his thick muscles, and his somewhat flattened nose, probably a result of one too many bar fights. Noticing Edwistyr's eyes on him, the mer pulled out a ridiculously tiny silver dagger while raising his lips in a malevolent sneer, before using the tip of it to clean his teeth.

Paying no attention to the mer, Edwistyr leant forward towards the woman, putting as much warmth as he could in his words. "I'm looking for a most _talented_ captain..."

She laughed, a wicked, wonderful laugh, before tucking a wayward black curl behind her ear. No mer had curls like that. "Oh, sweetness, you're looking right at her. Now why don't you tell me what sort of wild ride you're looking for?" She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand, and dipped forward, dazzling him with an abundance of cleavage.

Damn, he _liked_ this creature.

With as much innuendo as he could, he discussed passage to Morrowind, surprised by her boast at how quickly her ship could take him there. Reading between her comments about his accommodation he was positive he'd find himself placed in the captain's own quarters. If her choice of tavern was any indication, she probably had many a pleasurable treasure aboard her ship. This was shaping up to be the most fun he'd ever had at sea.

"How's he paying?" the Dunmer's grumpy question, interrupting a very naughty joke he'd just shared with her, surprised Edwistyr.

"The s'wit's right, honey. My ship don't sail for free," the captain concurred, punctuating her words with a leering wink, safely out of sight of the mer. "You want to plow through the spray, you've got to pay."

"This should cover most of the costs," Edwistyr smoothly answered, pulling the ring from a secret pocket. He held the fat ruby out, the vaguest of memories bubbling up at the sight of it. It was an old piece, stolen long ago after convincing the lover he took it from she'd gifted it to him in a drunken fit of generosity. All he could recall was Cerisse hadn't cared for it. He briefly wondered if those preposterous rumours about her were true, if she really was betrothed to that grey Orc. Surely not—probably nothing more than the gossips telling their usual tales.

The captain held out her hand, allowing him to place it on her index finger while taking as many opportunities as possible to gently tease her calloused skin. She brought it close to her face, inspecting it with a grin, before pointedly shoving it in the direction of her companion. The mer didn't flinch, but he did curl his lip in disdain, pausing the motion of his tiny dagger to do so.

"Once we're on board, it'll be all yours..." Edwistyr reached forward, intending to take it back from her, but the Dunmer reacted with a shocking speed, flicking the miniature dagger down to the table, point landing in between Edwistyr's splayed fingers. Taking the hint, he withdrew his hands. "Or you can hold on to it for me."

"It's a start," she murmured, wiggling her finger, allowing the jewel to sparkle back at her in the gloom of the torches. "I'm sure I'll think of something you can _do_ to earn the rest of your keep." The delightful promise in that little word make him smile. This was shaping up to be a fantastic voyage.

Arrangements finalized, they made their way out of the tavern down to the docks, Edwistyr escorting the captain by her one arm, the mer malevolently trailing behind. The jeers and curses of drunken sailors drifted past on the night breeze, masking the rustling of the palm fronds. Her ship turned out smaller than he'd expected, but he wasn't about to complain.

The captain began to bark orders to her crew, preparing them to weigh anchor and set sail. Initial instructions complete, she urged Edwistyr down the hatch, to climb the rickety ladder all the way to the bottom. He did as she asked, finding himself in a narrow hallway in the cargo hold, sturdy walls set with solid doors partitioning the cramped space.

"You sleep down here?" he asked as she dropped down beside him. He stepped back, further into the hall, to make room for her.

"Oh, sweetness, I sleep wherever I please," she answered with a purr, reaching forward to stroke his cheek.

Suddenly his legs crumpled out from under him, an unnatural heaviness pressing his body down to the wooden planked hull. Edwistyr couldn't move, his limbs refusing to function, his head unable to turn.

"I thought you didn't know how to paralyze," the Dunmer gruffly stated as he stepped over Edwistyr. "Any particular cell?"

"Far right," the captain answered, her hand briefly waving in Edwistyr's vision as she pointed. "And it's not paralysis. It's a burden spell."

"Where'd you learn that trick?" the mer asked, his strong hands clutching Edwistyr's arms, dragging him down the hall with no concern for comfort.

"Telvanni friend of mine. Haven't seen her in ages—I'll have to look her up when we get to Morrowind." Edwistyr caught sight of the wicked creature as she stood in the doorway, pointing here and there as she ordered the mer to put him on the hard plank bunk. "Hey, don't damage him too much," she protested when the Dunmer _accidentally_ knocked his head off the wall. "I've got a reputation for quality. It won't do to sell spoilt merchandise."

"I still can't believe there's a market for _him_," the mer sneered, letting Edwistyr drop. The discussion made his blood run cold. He'd heard of such things, disreputable taverns where pirates kidnapped people, selling them into slavery, but those were supposed to be nothing but rumours...

"He's pretty enough," she replied idly, "if a bit worse for wear. He'll fetch a good price. Y'know, maybe I'll offer him to my Telvanni friend first. She does have a thing for brunettes."

"Do you think she'll have any of that salve for sale? I gave away my last tin," the mer's voice grew muffled as he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Edwistyr alone in the dark.

He couldn't hear the captain's response, but he did hear her low giggles followed by a sudden, delighted shriek. As she scampered away down the hall the mer called after her. "On this ship you can run but you can't hide, and as soon as I catch you, you can bet your pretty little calipers I'll obey that order right away, you fetching pirate queen."

The mer's heavy footsteps faded away, leaving Edwistyr lying in an awkward position on the unyielding bunk, listening to the slapping of the water against the hull, and the occasional creak of wood overhead. He managed to hold panic at bay for a while, at least, until the faint squeaking reached his ears. No, anything but _rats_...

What had he ever done to deserve this?

* * *

Standing at the bow of the ship, watching the setting sun sparkle off the water, feeling the salt-scented wind gently caress his face, Agronak smiled. This was far better than he'd ever imagined.

"There you are," the happy voice called out to him, his blushing bride walking over to join him. "I've been looking all over for you. So the potion worked?"

"I'd say so," he answered, tugging her close, "though the lack of lurching helps too."

"I don't think it's possible for a ship this big to lurch," Cerisse murmured, rubbing her hands over the painted railing. "It's rather gracious of them."

"Synderius said they were highly pleased with our work," Agronak answered. "And I know Lilia felt bad about missing the wedding."

"Still, passage home on the finest Imperial barge in the fleet..." Cerisse trailed off, shaking her head. "You do have well-connected friends."

"_We_ have well-connected friends," he corrected, turning her new pet word back at her, "just like _we_ are related to half of High Rock."

It started small, a trickle of relatives arriving early in Tamborne, Cerisse's siblings coming to assist with the final preparations and take advantage of the opportunity to visit. Just as he felt comfortable with the names of the in-laws, nieces, and nephews, a flood of cousins, uncles, and aunts crashed over him in force. By the morning of the wedding, he found himself so overwhelmed with new faces he could no longer distinguish between Alabyval's family, Evie's relatives, and the friendly citizens of Tamborne.

Hopefully the perplexed cheese merchant wouldn't take advantage of Agronak's offer to come visit the family in Crowhaven one day...

"_We_ are not," she huffed, poking him lightly in the chest. "I still don't see how you find it confusing. Besides, you'll get to know them better soon enough. Uncle Albyn and Aunt Mette want to come to Crowhaven once the busy season's over, and we've already had three different invitations to visit my cousins out in Anticlere..."

"Let's wait until we're home before discussing this," he interrupted, scooping her up in a spin. Ever since she confessed she liked it when he did that, he took every opportunity he could to sweep her off her feet. "I'm a bit wary of travel for the moment."

"Really?" Cerisse asked with a coy smile, her hand tracing the contours of his cheek. "Don't tell me the mighty warrior is scared of something. I won't believe it of someone so brave," a soft kiss punctuated the description, "so _ra gada_," this kiss lingered longer, her voice growing huskier, "so handsome..."

The murmured word drifted away on the sea breeze as her lips remained, warm hands skimming over his shoulders, her breaths deepening...

"Oh, by Dibella, that's so romantic!" Ria's cooing voice shattered the moment. "The sunset, the pose—Dyn! Come see this!"

"Ri Ri, that's my sister you're talking about," Dyn's tart reply floated out from his spot, safely hidden from view around the corner. "_Never_ will anything she's involved in possibly be romantic. Disgusting, horrific, and terrifying, yes. Romantic, _no_."

"It's safe to come out," Cerisse dryly called, her feet firmly back on deck, mild annoyance in her tone. She rolled her eyes at Agronak, expressing her frustration at perpetually trying to reign in her younger sibling. He knew she hoped Gondyn's first assignment working in the family business—of setting up a small office in Anvil—would temper his tendency to turn everything into a joke. Though he personally felt it wouldn't matter what the man did—he never took anything entirely serious.

Cerisse turned to her sister, expression softening as the young woman joined them by the railing. "You're settled in?"

"Yes, Reesy," Ria answered, hint of petulant child tired of being mothered in her voice. "I have travelled by ship before, in case you've forgotten. I know what I'm doing." She shook her head, sharing a sympathetic look with Agronak, as if to say she understood how bossy her sister could be at times. So far, he found himself unable able to return it in kind. "Tell me again about the Imperial City. Is the prison really so big it has its own district?"

With a chuckle he eased her worries, assuring her most of the citizens were law-abiding folk, and the district was mainly filled with the headquarters of the Legion. He tried hard to hide it—while he encouraged Ria's decision to travel there to seek out an instructor for her voice in hopes of pursuing her dream of becoming a bard, he couldn't help feeling a few reservations about her ability to take care of herself. She'd always maintained a sort of naïve innocence in his eyes.

Cerisse certainly worried about her sister's plan, the amount of gentle persuasion she'd employed trying to convince Ria to study closer to her family's home far outstripping Evie's flustered mutterings. However, Ria stood firm in her choice, and after a vent of frustration in which she revealed she wanted to leave some unhappy memories far behind for a while, Cerisse's attitude changed to that of begrudging acceptance. She really did have her loved ones best interests at heart, which was one of the things he adored about her—she hadn't retired her role of protectress with the end of her Blade duties.

Gondyn reluctantly emerged into view, large watermelon tucked under his arm, mischief in his eyes. Seeing he wouldn't encounter any horrific mental scarring, he walked over to tap Ria on her far shoulder, snickering when she turned to look as he leaned against the railing on her other side. "Hear that, Ri Ri? You'll have to watch yourself in the city—no getting into any fights while you're there."

"Dyn." Agronak recognized Ria's tone—it was the same one Cerisse took whenever she wanted the man to stop talking about a certain topic. It was also the one that never worked.

"You'd better warn your friends in the Arena, Aggyronak," Gondyn winked at Agronak's growl. The man, banned from calling him Aggy, somehow managed to hastily say it anyway whenever he called Agronak by name. "My sister's become quite the brawler. We couldn't be prouder."

"_Jekosiit_," Ria hissed under her breath as she warded off Gondyn's hand, which was attempting to pat her on the head like a pet dog. "You'll muss my hair."

"Ria, what's he talking about?" Cerisse asked, eying her siblings suspiciously.

"You didn't tell them?" Gondyn questioned incredulously. "Ri Ri, you were brilliant! You're definitely the cleverest baby sister I've got."

"I'm the only baby sister you've got," she muttered, smile dancing on her lips, betraying her pleasure at the praise nonetheless. "I've got to give Aggy the credit, though. I couldn't have done it without his help."

"And what did I help you do?" Agronak asked, moving to the side in an attempt to get a better look at her. With the setting sun behind her, she appeared to wear a crown of fire, her face hidden in late evening shadows. Each step he took—without the assistance of wall or railing—bolstered his confidence. Maybe it wasn't that his body disagreed with sailing—maybe it was the sort of ship which made the difference.

"That twit from the mages guild—" Gondyn began, cut off when Ria nudged him with her hip.

"Evoker Bierles," she stated loudly, making it quite clear she would tell the tale, "showed up while I was in Tamborne, helping Cyovta with preparations for the wedding. As soon as he saw me I could tell it was my turn to inherit the Hawkton curse."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Cerisse murmured, patting her sister on the arm. "I know how he can be. At least he's stuck in Menevia...he is, isn't he?" Her brow furrowed as a worrisome thought occurred to her. "He doesn't know you'll be near the Arcane University, does he?"

Ria laughed with delight at the question. "I've no idea if he knows, but it doesn't matter." She shook her head, leaning against the railing, her back pressing into the painted wood. "After watching Lyrrya, Wynny, then you fail to drive him off, I finally decided to give it a shot."

"What did you do?" Cerisse folded her arms, unsure whether to start glaring or not.

"Well, he was following me down the street, offering his services—for free—going on about how he'd feel so much better if he knew I was _safe_ and _protected_. He wouldn't accept I could look after myself, no matter how curt I was." Ria's explanation bristled with remembered annoyance.

Cerisse did glare, but only at the water as she recalled irritating memories. "I can picture it far too well."

"So I asked myself—what would Aggy do?" Ria beamed over at Agronak. "How would a warrior handle it?"

"And how does a warrior handle it?" he asked with a big grin, already amused regardless of her answer.

"I though back to what you showed me," she stood up from the railing, curling her hands into fists, adopting her version of a fearsome stance, "pictured him as a big old ball of inewen dough, then _wham_!" She shot a fist forward, her punch landing harmlessly against the waiting flat of Agronak's hand. "Wham, wham!" Her knuckles thwacked against his palm, hard enough to leave a mild sting. She had picked up a thing or two—good girl.

"Ria!" Cerisse was scandalized, mouth dropping open in shock. "That's awful!"

"No it's not," Ria retorted, shaking her hands out with a grimace at the discomfort. Her skills may have improved, but she hadn't yet toughened her skin up. "I warned him I could take care of myself—it's not _my_ fault he wouldn't listen. When I last saw him, he was puffing like a slaughterfish out of water, telling _me_ never to come near him again."

"Brilliant," Agronak murmured, echoing her brother's compliment. "I'll have to teach you a few more moves. Too bad I hadn't shown you how to kick..."

"If you're going to be demonstrating, Aggyronak," Gondyn cut in with a smirk, eyebrows wiggling, "maybe you could show me something." He slid the watermelon out from his arm, cradling it in his palms. "I'm still not sure how you handle these things. Did you mean you toss them about to work on your grip?" He bounced the watermelon into the air, green rind landing heavily in his palms with a dull thump. "Or maybe rotate it?" The watermelon began to twirl as he shifted it from one hand to the other, turning it end over end, frown on his lips as he tried to keep it from tumbling away.

"Simple," Agronak growled, snatching the spinning fruit away, the speed of his movements causing Gondyn to gape. "Let _Agronak_ make it clear." Stepping forward, he trapped Gondyn against the railing, the man's back leaning over the ledge as he tried to keep his distance. The Breton's eyes darted to his snickering sisters as Agronak held the watermelon up by the ends, as close as he dared to the man's face. "The twisting is the key."

Loosing a snarl of exertion, he pressed his arms together with as much speed and strength he could muster, at the same time turning the ends of the watermelon in opposite directions. The fruit burst open at the force, a slush of pink, flecked with shattered bits of dark green rind, pouring over Gondyn's shirt. Agronak threw the remainders of the watermelon overboard, aiming so they passed close by Gondyn's ear.

The Breton blinked a few times, his jaw slack. His brows knit together as his mouth began to work, words attempting to form, before being lost to his amazement. Agronak wiggled his eyebrows in return as he stepped back, trying hard not to laugh—Gondyn reminded him of a fish, his lips pursed in a circle, small _gwop_ noises resulting from every aborted attempt at speech.

Between Ria's howling laughter and Cerisse's loud snorts of mirth, Agronak couldn't help chuckling. Gondyn finally regained his wits, flush of embarrassment creeping over his face, frown on his mouth as he ran a hand over his sticky shirt, trying to push off the worst of the mess. Glaring hard, he walked away, trying valiantly to ignore the catcalls of Ria as she trailed after him, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him mercilessly for a change.

"Now, what were we talking about?" Agronak murmured, reaching for his bride, feeling very smug with his victory. He was fairly sure Gondyn would lay off the _Aggyronak_—at least, for a little while.

"You're a mess!" Cerisse protested, trying to dodge out of reach.

"So?" He grinned as he caught her, pulling her into a sticky embrace. "It's just a little watermelon. I though you didn't mind getting dirty."

"Dirt isn't _sticky_," she muttered dryly, resigning herself to his hug with a sigh. "Sticky's different."

"What's wrong with sticky?" he chuckled, kissing the top of her head.

"Sticky's...well, it's _sticky,_" she shrugged, frowning as she tried to think of how to describe it. "You know, it makes you stick to things."

"Then you shouldn't mind this." He lifted her up, tossing her over his shoulder, making her squeak with surprise. "Since you married me, you're already stuck with me."

"I guess I'm all yours then," she purred, her hands running down his back, taking advantage of her position to pinch as she pleased. "And you're mine."

"Good thing, too," he replied, wiping his free hand on her skirts, sneaking a squeeze in return. "Since neither of us know how to share." Carrying her off below decks, listening to her instructions to turn right, not left, he couldn't help grinning to himself as thought about the way his trip ended.

It didn't matter whether he was on sea, land, or safely ensconced in Crowhaven's study. So long as he had his little nymph by his side, he'd always be on an adventure.

* * *

_**Author's Note**: Many thanks to those readers who stuck it out to the end, especially considering my update schedule suffered frequent attacks of forgetfulness. Also, I must again commend Raven Studios for patiently pointing out (over and over and over and over again) my authorial foibles. Be sure to read her stories - they're excellent!_


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